Set in Stone
by EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: In which trust games are played, the future is undecided, and no one quite knows what Mordred is up to. Or, alternatively, an author allowing her imagination to run riot thanks to that scene with the cloak. Merlin/Mordred, eventually.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: **Arthur/Gwen (uck, but it's canon, and this is making some vague pretence of being so). Denial, quite possibly. Fraternising with the enemy(?). Wisdom that is less wise than it thinks it is. An author who is steadily losing her mind. And spoilers for series five, obviously.**  
Bits and bobs before we begin:** I have no idea what this is. First remotely canon thing I've written since the end of series three (because I disagree strongly with a great number of things in series four, most of which begin with an _L_,and trust me, if I were in charge, things would have gone very differently [disclaimer, that, incidentally]), and...yeah, really don't know what this is. But it wouldn't leave me alone, and I figured, hey, it's not like stranger things haven't happened. I blame my brother, who seems to think Merlin and Gwen are made for each other, and whose insanity is obviously contagious. And so, without further ado, part one. More forthcoming, soonish. Until then.

**Set in Stone**

**I  
**

Merlin shouldn't trust him. He knows that. He's S_een_ that, for goodness sake. And this could all be an elaborate plot by Morgana, whereby she has Mordred stab her to prove his trustworthiness to Arthur and thus gain another spy in Camelot, one Arthur will trust just as much as he trusted Agravaine. No one checked she was dead, after all, Merlin found out later; he was unconscious and assumed someone had done it while he was out, but Arthur and Mordred had made getting back to the others their priority. Morgana might not be dead, and even if she is, Mordred is _dangerous_.

But Merlin trusts him anyway. Mostly.

He'll keep a close eye on him, just in case.

X

Kilgarrah told him to kill Mordred as a child, almost a decade ago. And yes, perhaps there was something a little sinister about him then, all pale skin and dark hair, eyes that saw everything and _absolute silence_. But he was a child nonetheless, and while Merlin may be many things he is not that. He does not hurt innocents, which children by definition are.

Kilgarrah would probably tell him to kill Mordred now.

That's kind of why Merlin hasn't mentioned he's here.

X

Thing is, Merlin hasn't had anyone his own age (which Mordred is _not_, and while helping Mordred remove his cloak on the day of his knighting might be the first time he reminds himself of this fact, it is by no means the last) to talk to about magic with since Lancelot died. Mordred knows, though, how much of himself Merlin keeps hidden, how much of himself Merlin is scared he will never be able to reveal. Better still, Mordred _understands_.

Best – and perhaps most surprising – of all, Mordred hasn't said anything to anyone.

Even when Merlin threatens him, which he does far more than just that once.

X

"I couldn't even sit upright by myself the first time my mother saw my eyes glow gold," Merlin confesses, when he happens to pass Mordred in an empty hallway. It is just so long since he spoke of his magic to anyone but Gaius, and the words spill from his lips before he has time to think about them.

_I was still babbling baby talk the first time I spoke to my parents like this_, Mordred answers, his voice ringing in Merlin's brain rather than his ears.

He smiles, cautiously, as well he should be; Merlin has been little better than hostile to him since he arrived.

Merlin is just as incapable of controlling his answering grin as he is his tongue.

X

"I poisoned Morgana to save Camelot. To save Arthur."

_My backstabbing was somewhat more literal_.

X

"There is no one I wouldn't kill to keep him safe."

_And yet I'm still alive_.

Merlin follows him for a week after that comment, tensing every time Mordred comes within a hundred yards of Arthur.

It's possible that is the reaction Mordred wanted.

X

"Merlin, a word," Arthur says, when Merlin goes to follow everyone from the hall after a Round Table meeting.

Merlin glances at Mordred's retreating back, not remotely willing to let him out of his sight, but Arthur frowns, adding, "Now, Merlin," before gesturing to the seat next to him.

Merlin perches reluctantly on the chair, ready to leap up and get after him as soon as Arthur says whatever it is he has to say. Right up until the moment that Arthur says it, at which point trailing Mordred no longer seems quite so good an idea.

"Is there a reason you're following Sir Mordred like a new duckling with its mother?" Arthur asks, fixing Merlin with a stern look.

"Am I?" Merlin replies, because an outright denial will just irk him. This serves much the same purpose, but in a way that will hopefully irritate Arthur a little less.

Unfortunately, while it doesn't piss him off, it hardly pleases Arthur either. "Don't lie to me, Merlin. You're not very good at it."

"Actually, it was a question," Merlin smirks, because _actually, I'm very good at it_ probably isn't a smart thing to say. "A question can't be a lie, Arthur."

"It might as well be, since you know the answer already. Is this more of your rubbish about me not shooting him on the ice? You don't trust him? Or do you just not trust my judgement?"

That gets only silence, because the obvious answer (_um, no. Not when your judgement had you completely blind to the fact that your father was an irrational bigot and your uncle was working for your psycho sister, which, incidentally, you also didn't notice_) is not one Arthur will appreciate at all. He isn't exactly happy with having his past mistakes pointed out, after all, but then no one ever really is.

"He saved my life!" Arthur growls, not loudly but with definitely force. "He turned against Morgana! What reason could you possibly have...unless you aren't following him because you distrust him. Huh."

"_Huh_ what, Arthur?"

All of Arthur's fierceness is gone, replaced by a speculative yet almost certainly sincere smile. "_Huh_ nothing, Mer_lin_. I just haven't seen you show interest in someone since...well, it's been quite a while."

Merlin blinks at this, then blinks again. "You think that...?" he asks, that question coming out only a little ahead of _you mean, since you decided you'd rather be with Gwen than me? _mostly because the second sounds a little bitter and also too much like a something that is not a _no_.

"It's fine if you do. He is a perfectly decent man." A pause, then he adds, "Guinevere and I have been worried about you. Neither of us wishes you to be alone."

"Wow, _thanks_, Arthur. I'm so glad you approve," Merlin drawls, chipper insincerity in every syllable. "Now, ignoring the fact that he's far too young for me, no. Really, really no."

"He's older than you were when you came to Camelot."

"Yes, and I'm _much_ older than you were the first time we slept together," Merlin argues, because if Arthur is going to go there, so is he, and he isn't afraid to say all the things Arthur doesn't want to.

"Age doesn't matter, Merlin. He's a knight of Camelot, you could hardly force him into your bed if he didn't want to be there." Merlin thinks Arthur thinks this is actually comforting, or encouraging, or something. It's not, not in slightest.

"I'm going now, Arthur. I have far more important things to be doing than listening to your nonsense."

Although, yeah, he might stop following Mordred for a bit. Just until Arthur forgets his utterly mental ideas. It's hardly the only way to keep Arthur alive, after all.

X

As it happens, Arthur is considerably less fond of Merlin sticking to him like glue than he is of Merlin following Mordred around. But needs must, and Merlin isn't going to let Arthur get hurt. Not now, not ever.

X

_Assuming I was a threat_, Mordred says in Merlin's mind as Arthur calls for a brief break in training, shouting for Merlin to bring him water, _how exactly is behaving like this supposed to stop me?_

Merlin trips him up, just because he can.

He's not the only one entertained by it, either.

X

_Emrys_, comes the voice, deep in the darkness of the night. _Emrys, I need to speak to you_.

Merlin pulls his lumpy, ugly pillow over his head, trying to block it out. It works about as well as it used to when Kilgarrah called him, which is not at all.

_Meet me in the Table room. It's important. I won't let you sleep until you do_.

X

"Arthur's in danger," Mordred says when Merlin gets there, for once using actual words. "I need your help to protect him."

"My help?" Merlin asks, at the same time as his brain is desperately babbling_ Arthur? Danger? Whatwhenwherehowwho?  
_  
Mordred nods, gravely, looking so much older than he is. "Please, Emrys. Merlin. I can't do this on my own."

It might be his name, his actual name, that clinches it. It might be because he subconsciously trusts Mordred more than he thinks he does. It might just be because it's Arthur, and Merlin will never allow harm to come to him.

"What do you need me to do?"

X

Having someone who knows, Merlin remembers, makes things so much easier. He doesn't have to wait until everyone is unconscious to use his magic, just has to wait until Mordred steps up, drawing his sword and everyone's attention as he faces off against the latest sorcerer to decide regicide is the answer to all his problems.

Mordred gets a reputation for being brave and noble and as prone to self-sacrifice as Lancelot, Merlin gets to keep his head attached, and Arthur gets to live. Everybody wins.

And yes, Merlin has considered the possibility that Mordred engineered the attack in order to gain his trust.

He has to say, though, if he did, it kind of worked.

X

"Thank you," Merlin says, as the feast honouring Mordred and his bravery is approaching what ought to be its end. "For warning me, and for distracting them. I owe you."

_He is my king, too, Emrys_, Mordred answers. "But you're welcome, Merlin."

"Oi!" Gwaine yells across the hall. "Less talking, more drinking, boys."

"I'm not a boy," Mordred replies, glancing at Merlin before heading over to join them.

_Hmm_, Merlin thinks, dragging his eyes away from where they want to linger and searching out a pitcher to refill Arthur's goblet.

And no, there is no possibility at all that Arthur was right about his motives in keeping an eye on Mordred, none whatsoever.

X

This time, Merlin searches him out. He isn't entirely sure why, other than curiosity; he and Mordred have a somewhat tenuous friendship, he thinks, but then Merlin's friendships tend to be either tentative (Arthur, Freya, Morgana back...well, before, and no, there is not a pattern there) or all out from the offset, and it is so very comforting to have someone else who knows just how much he is capable of.

"Hello, Merlin," Mordred says. _What can I do for you today?_

"That," Merlin answers, surprising himself with his words. "Will you teach me that?"

_What can you offer me in return?_ Mordred replies, and if he isn't intending to sound taunting it's one of the biggest coincidences Merlin has ever come across. _Knowledge is power, _Emrys_, and power is never free._

And this is something particularly powerful, Merlin realises. A Druid gift, and one of the few Merlin does not have. Of course Mordred is going to want something in return.

"What would you like?" Merlin asks, because he has no idea what he can offer Mordred, what this power is worth.

He is imagining the light in Mordred's eyes as he examines him, Merlin tells himself. He must be.

"A favour," Mordred says eventually, aloud. "Of my own choosing, at some point in the future."

"Do I have the option of refusing when that time comes?" Merlin asks, because he isn't going to promise to grant an unknown favour at an unknown point in time, even if he has mostly, _mostly_, decided Mordred is trustworthy.

_You might_. Mordred smiles, that same silent, eerie smile he had the last time Merlin knew him_. Of course, when the time comes, you might not want to._

He turns, going off to do whatever it is he does when Merlin isn't watching him, leaving nothing but the words, _think it over _dancing in Merlin's mind.

X

Merlin does. He thinks about it, and thinks about it, and _thinks _about it. And then thinks about it some more.

"I agree. Conditionally."

_Of course you do,_ Mordred answers. _Name your terms._

X

"I won't hurt anyone," Merlin tells him, three days later.

_Obvious, Emrys. You can do better than that._

X

"I won't do anything that may possibly endanger Arthur, or any of his people."

_It's like you're not even trying, Emrys_.

X

On his third attempt, Merlin makes a list of every single thing that occurs to him, covering every unfavourable thing Mordred could possibly ask of him.

_Nothing that may aid Morgana, inadvertently or not_, he begins, the fine sheet of parchment snaffled from Arthur's personal (and almost untouched) supply. _No aiding prisoners in escaping, leaving doors unlocked, or engineering a way for places to be unguarded. No outing himself or others, no sharing of anything even the slightest bit confidential, however harmless it may seem._

He pauses, moving the quill to drip ink on the table rather than the page, then carries on. _No passing on messages or reading texts or speaking words he does not fully comprehend and approve the purpose of. No lying to anyone, no spreading rumours or half-truths or complete truths that are best left unstated._

_Nothing that might harm anyone_, he reiterates, _not physically or mentally or emotionally, be it permanent or temporary, fleeting or long lasting. Nothing that could endanger Arthur, consciously or otherwise; no releasing creatures, no spells of unknown origin, no encouraging the prat into facing danger (or, for that matter, trying too hard to encourage him out of it)._

_And,_ because Merlin does realise what lessons in telepathy are going to entail, and it's a risk he is willing to take, _Mordred must swear at the offset not to reveal anything he may see in Merlin's mind, must guard all his secrets with the same focus he does his own._

That, Merlin thinks, is it. Certainly enough. After all, promising a favour to someone he doesn't consider trustworthy isn't a good idea, and if Mordred has something planned chances are all Merlin's precautions aren't going to be enough to cover for it. He has been as careful as he can, and who knows how useful a skill true telepathy might be, how many times he might be able to help Arthur with it.

He uses his magic to get into Mordred's room (a spell he's perfected over years of forgetting Arthur's key far too often) and leaves the paper on his bed, a sign that his willingness to trust only goes so far, and a lock isn't going to be enough to keep him out.

X

_We have a deal_, reads the sheet of paper – just as fine as the one Merlin used earlier, and he really hopes Mordred got it properly, by asking for it, rather than taking Merlin's path of subterfuge – left on Merlin's bed that evening.

Since neither the door to Gaius' rooms nor the secondary door to Merlin's bedroom has a lock, this is a somewhat less impressive feat.

Not that that makes it any less disconcerting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: **references to past sexual situations and character deaths, both minor and major. Language, because I'm incapable of not swearing like a sailor. Blood, but only a little bit of it. And a bucketload of odd.  
**Other things: **Firstly, still ain't mine. Secondly, thanks to all the lovely, lovely people reading, favouriting, alerting and, of course, reviewing this thing, particularly _bloody mirror_, who did so anonymously and thus cannot be thanked with a proper response. Thirdly, the blame now lies with a bizarre combination of Dexter and eighties pop/rock. Because when I try write things without angst (which this is, I promise) my brain decides the eighties is the way to go (for reasons unknown, it has decided to focus on A-Ha for the moment, but I think that's just because Mordred is a challenging bugger). Not sure when the next one will be, but again, I'm aiming for soon. Peach.

**Set in Stone**

**II**

_Tonight_, Mordred tells him a little over a week later. Of course, he chooses to do so when Merlin is a good way from him, and thus incapable of protesting in time for it to do any good._ My room_.

X

It being less an invitation than an instruction, Merlin figures he has every right not to show up. The only person whose orders he's obliged to follow is Arthur (even then it's on very much an optional basis that he does so) and the sooner Mordred learns that, the better. And yes, it was his idea, but thanks to their deal, Mordred stands to gain just as much from Merlin as a result of the favour he has agreed to, if not more. Until one side of the bargain is fulfilled, neither of them has power over the other.

No, Merlin is going to take his time tonight, no rush whatsoever. He'll dawdle through serving Arthur and Gwen their dinner, then eat his own with Gaius at what will only be describable as a leisurely pace.

Mordred will just have to wait.

X

(Merlin serves more punctually and more efficiently than he ever has in the past, eats quickly enough to merit three comments from Gaius about the importance of chewing one's food, and is no more than fifty yards from the door to his room the first time he stumbles over his untied laces. He also gets to Mordred's room quite some time before he intended to, but really, who is counting?)

X

Mordred opens the door within moments of Merlin getting there, before he even has the chance to knock. He doesn't say anything (both literally and in his oh so creepy silent way, and why did Merlin think this was a good idea again?), just holds the door open and waits, allowing the first move to be Merlin's.

"We doing this or what?" Merlin asks, shoulders back, chin out, spine straight, and huh, he's taller than Mordred too. Which shouldn't be something he gloats about, internally or otherwise, because this is a battle height isn't going to give him an advantage in, but he'll take his victories where he can get them.

"By all means," Mordred answers, seemingly having no problem with looking up, looking him in the eyes. He steps back, waving Merlin in, then shuts the door firmly, turning the key in the lock, and if this is any sort of trap Merlin is walking right into it. "Take a seat."

Merlin glances around the room: windows, drapes closed; wardrobe, doors shut; floor, spotless; bed, pristinely made; chairs, absent. "Where?"

Mordred looks pointedly from Merlin to the bed and back again; it being the only thing besides the floor to sit on, Merlin should probably have figured as much for himself, but it's hardly an average situation. "You can stand if you wish, of course," Mordred says, smooth and challenging, settling calmly on his bed – back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him – with an expression that suggests that yes, this _is _an entirely average situation, nothing at all out of the ordinary for him.

X

Merlin has never dealt well with challenges, and for all that he tells Arthur to retreat from time to time, that sometimes things are very much not a good idea, he's just as good at listening to his own advice as Arthur is.

This is definitely one of those times, and if Arthur was the one about to do this, Merlin would be cursing him seven ways from Sunday, trying to yell some sense into him. But he is not Arthur, and for all he recognises that this is foolish, that letting Mordred run rampant in his brain is nothing but idiocy, there is still a whisper in his mind, telling him that the future hasn't happened yet, that it might not happen at.

Just because he's seen it, doesn't mean it will be, and what other reason could a dying man have to show him this other than so that he could stop it? This is not set in stone.

"Has it not occurred to you to find some chairs?" Merlin asks, but he sits anyway, so close to the foot of the bed that it's something of an achievement that he's not falling backwards off it.

X

"If you have any secrets," _aside from the obvious one_, Mordred smirks, silently, "now would be a good time to tell me them."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Merlin tells him, because he has a fair few things he'd rather not tell anyone, particularly not Mordred.

"You do understand what we're about to do, don't you?" Mordred asks. _This is not a game, Emrys. Mind-to-mind communication is not a precise science. I cannot explain to you how it works; I can only teach you by showing you, and I can only do that by being inside your mind. Anything you don't want me to know will likely be the very first thing you think of. It will save us both some time and me what are likely to be vastly unpleasant visuals if you just tell me things rather than forcing me to see them._

"Yes, and you're going to swear not to reveal anything you see in my mind. No such bargains were made with regards to spoken words."

Mordred lets out a low, amused chuckle. "As entertaining as this is, I'm really not as devious as you seem to think I am."

_I'll believe that when I see it_, Merlin thinks, but figures saying it is a waste of time; he's hardly making a secret of how wary he is around Mordred, and actually telling him isn't going to be anything new.

Mordred gives him a good moment of silence, then nods, still with a softly amused smile on his face. _Very well, Emrys. I will extend our deal to include anything you say, if you agree to swear the same_. By some sleight of hand, he produces a knife, not a large one, but almost certainly sharp, and holds it out, handle towards Merlin. "What say you?"

Merlin takes it, spends a few seconds contemplating just what he can do with the blade, how quickly he can lunge at Mordred and sink a few inches of steel between his ribs, then agrees. "Yeah, alright." He nicks his thumb, just deep enough to draw blood, then passes the knife back and waits for Mordred to do the same. "I swear not to reveal anything you say or think during these lessons, unless my silence poses a risk to Arthur or to Camelot." He puts enough power into the words that he knows his eyes are glowing, holding Mordred's gaze the whole time. "Good enough?"

"Just fine," Mordred answers, then echoes him word for word, eyes just as bright, tone just as intense. He holds his bloody right hand out to Merlin, who takes it, expecting a handshake to seal the deal. He doesn't expect Mordred to bring Merlin's hand up to his face, his mouth, press his lips against the cut on Merlin's thumb.

"What the hell are-" Merlin begins, before Mordred swirls his tongue around the cut and he finds himself utterly without words. He yanks his hand back, thumb wet with Mordred's saliva, back of his palm smeared with Mordred's blood and _what the hell?_

Mordred smiles, lips quirking upwards, then licks a smear of Merlin's blood from the corner of his mouth. _Only failsafe way I know to seal an oath_, he says. _You can lick my blood off your hand, if you wish. It's just as effective, and I'd imagine you'd prefer not to have my thumb in your mouth._

This time, there is no challenge to Mordred's tone, none whatsoever. Mordred expects nothing of him, doesn't seem to be goading him into actions he doesn't want to take. And clearly, clearly, Merlin is a bloody idiot, because does he lick the blood from his hand, a gesture that is gross but mostly innocuous?

No, of course not.

He reaches out, snatches Mordred's hand and brings it towards him, leaning down to close the distance between his mouth and Mordred's thumb. He flicks his tongue out, just a taste, copper and salt and the blood of his enemy, watches Mordred's eyes widen, his pupils expand, a flicker of some unknown emotion on his face, there then gone, and then Mordred pulls his hand back, just as quickly as Merlin did less than a minute ago.

Mordred takes a deep, unsteady breath, still staring at Merlin, definitely shaken, and Merlin feels a thrill of pride, of achievement. "Are you ready?" Mordred asks after a moment, when it looks like he's got his surprise under control, apparently having forgotten this deal being so that Merlin would speak his secrets aloud. Maybe Merlin should, but he doesn't; he'd prefer to take the chance that things won't come up in his thoughts and Mordred will never find them out than say them and have Mordred know for definite.

"Willing and able," Merlin tells him, giddy success clearly doing even more to knock his judgement off-kilter than it already is, because that sentence was so not a good idea given the way Mordred's smirk returns with a vengeance.

_Hello, Emrys_, Mordred says, and this time it's not just a voice but a presence, someone else inside his head. And maybe yes, Merlin did know this was going to happen, maybe he asked for this, but he's only human and can probably forgiven for reacting violently.

X

_Hello, Emrys_, Mordred says, and Merlin feels him like a glow in the back of his head.

And then there is a confusing, chaotic mess of images in front of his eyes, all the things he should have told Mordred about before doing this so that they wouldn't both be seeing them now. Morgana, gasping for breath before him. His blade, cutting through Kilgarrah's chain like butter. Uther, dying at his wrinkled, liver-spotted hand. Freya, breathing her last in his arms. Lancelot, taking Merlin's place at the veil. Arthur above him, muscles rippling, breathing heavy, pressing bruises into Merlin's wrists as he gasps curses into the darkness of his room. A sharp, _sharp_ stab, like a knife to the gut, and that is not Merlin's. Everything else is, everything else _belongs_ to him, but this is not and Merlin wants it _gone_.

"Fuck," Mordred curses, the first time Merlin's heard a true expletive from him, and his head feels so blessedly empty with just him in it. "You pushed me out, Emrys."

"Who stabbed you?" Merlin asks, the first thing that occurs to him.

"Hmm?" Mordred answers, still aloud. "I didn't realise you'd feel that." It's really not an answer, not even close to one, but even with their oaths Merlin isn't saying everything, so it's maybe not fair for him to expect Mordred to. "Again?" Mordred asks after a moment, brow still creased into a frown. "Although if you could try not to do that again, I'd really appreciate it. It hurts."

Merlin would apologise, but since Mordred's just seen he and Arthur in bed together he's not exactly keen on the idea (not that that's a secret, not precisely, but he'd still prefer if no one actually saw them in the act). He nods, bracing himself for another onslaught of images, and raises his eyes to meet Mordred's again, to let him in again.

Fuck, this is such a bad idea.

X

The second try goes about as well as the first, the third only a little better than that. By the fourth, though, Merlin manages to let Mordred stay in his head long enough to get past the flashes of memory, of things Merlin doesn't like to share with anyone.

_Good_, Mordred says softly, and the glow of his presence becomes somewhat more obtrusive; only then does Merlin realise that Mordred has, surprisingly, been trying to keep back, trying, since Merlin's first mental expulsion of him, not to see Merlin's secrets. He is surprised by how much he appreciates it.

_Good, Emrys. Now, this is how it works_.

X

_I Saw you kill him_, Merlin says, the first time he reaches out, pushing his thoughts into Mordred's mind rather than waiting like a blank slate to receive them. Mordred has been helpful, after all, and even Merlin has to admit he saved Arthur's life, so whatever questions he might have about his motives, maybe Mordred deserves to know the reason behind Merlin's intense dislike of him.

Mordred presses his index and middle fingers to his temples, wincing slightly. "Not so loud, please," he asks. He stands, a little unsteady on his feet, and pours a goblet of water from the jug on a table, the only piece of furniture in the room Merlin missed in his original observation, mostly because it's hidden in the shadow cast by the wardrobe. _And I know_, he continues as he sips, and huh, Merlin figures talking with your mouth full isn't so much of a problem when you can do this. _I've Seen it too. I am more concerned by what happens after_.

_After? _Merlin asks, trying to moderate the force with which he thinks it; Mordred nods, just a little, and doesn't particularly look pained (not that that's necessarily a good thing, right now, when he's saying he's Seen Arthur's death at his own hands) so he figures he managed it.

"After. After the battle, after Arthur lies defeated at my feet, after I kill him. I don't know why you aren't there then, but you are after. You offer your life to bring him back, and mine, and then..." He pauses, then seems to realise this is not something to discuss aloud. _And you cannot, Emrys. You've played that card too many times already. You can't give your life, and whatever gods are listening don't consider mine enough. So you move further afield, Emrys. The closest five lives, then fifty, a hundred_.

"I wouldn't," Merlin says, the words startled from him before he can think them over. "I wouldn't. My life, yes, and you've just killed him, so yours is fair game. But I wouldn't bargain someone else's."

"You do, Merlin. You rip the world apart trying to get him back."

Mordred looks so convinced of this, so unutterably certain, that Merlin can do nothing but leave. That isn't who he is; Merlin has rules, and sure, sometimes they're a little more flexible than they ought to be, but destroying the world? That's too much, and there's no way Merlin can believe he would ever do that.

"This was a bad idea," he says aloud, putting the whole telepathy thing out of his mind.

_I think it isn't, Merlin_.

"Don't. We aren't allies, Mordred," Merlin says, as unbending as he can be, and how can he let himself forget that? How can he sit here playing at friendship, wanting friendship, as good as flirting with Arthur's killer, when he knows how all this is going to end. "We aren't going to be. There's no point in pretending."

"Merlin!" Mordred says to his back. "Merlin, that's not-"

Merlin shuts the door behind him, more forcibly than necessary but certainly not as loudly as he'd like.

And then almost walks into Gwaine, standing in the corridor with an eyebrow raised and an_ I know what you've just been doing _smirk on his face.

"Don't even think about it," Merlin mutters, skirting carefully around him. He has somewhere else to be right now, somewhere he ought to have been all along rather than make-believing that he can change the future, when he knows damn well that never worked with Morgana.

X

Do you trust me? _Mordred asks, as Merlin presses against his back and unfastens the clasp on his cloak._

"_Does that matter?" Merlin answers, enjoying Mordred's shudder as his breath ghosts across his neck._

_Mordred turns in his arms, letting his cloak pool on the floor behind him. "Not for this," he says, leaning in, and in, and in._

Merlin wakes before their lips touch, his heart beating a mile a minute, curled up in alcove just down the hall from the Royal Chambers and really hating the fact that Arthur is right about this.

On the plus side, at least it happened after he let Mordred in his mind rather than before, and he isn't ever going to be letting him back in again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings: ** Character death and mild sexual situations, both of which are entirely italicised (ie not real). An excess of Gwaine (assuming such a thing is possible, which I doubt), and a disturbing level of tolerance for Guinevere. Also, oddness.  
**Notes: **Credit here lies with Daroh, who is truly a genius (and hopefully won't mind the spin I put on her idea over the next few chapters). And with a playlist of what my sister refers to as Stalker Songs. Again, my love to everyone reading. You pretty much make my day. Peach._  
_

**Set in Stone**

**III  
**

_Emrys_, Mordred calls in his mind, shortly after Merlin wakes up from his deeply disturbing dream. _Emrys, will you speak to me, please?_

_No_, Merlin answers, then puts up all the metaphorical barriers he can. If he can throw Mordred out of his head – if it took actual effort to let him stay in there long enough to learn the basics of how this works – then he can keep him out now, no matter how much it's going to exhaust him to do so. He is not going to trust Mordred, cannot let himself, which means he can't let Mordred into his mind again, even in a way as innocuous as mere communication.

X

"_No!" Merlin shouts, over the caw of ravens and whimpers of dying men. "Arthur!"_

_He's too far away for Arthur to hear him, particularly seeing as his voice makes no sound, but he can't not try to warn him. He races towards Arthur, leaping rabbit holes and bodies, friends and enemies, and none of them mean anything to him because Arthur is going to die._

_Merlin is not going to be there in time to stop it._

_Mordred stares at the ground, at something Merlin can't actually make out, but he doesn't have to. He's Seen this, cannot stop seeing it, and still can't change it, no matter how many visions he has of the future._

"_Please," he calls, and even in the absence of his voice it sounds weak. "Please don't, Mordred. Please."_

Don't kill him_, he begs silently, cursing that he can do so at all, the lessons he asked for, the moments that made him take his eyes off Mordred, trust him more than he should. _I'll do anything_, he promises. _Anything, just don't ki-_ Mordred's eyes glow at him, and it's too late, too late. Arthur is already gone._

_Mordred grips the hilt of his sword – the sword, Arthur's sword – in both hands and drives it down into Arthur's chest, Arthur's body, piercing through armour and flesh and the earth underneath like a knife in butter._

_Excalibur stands straight and proud in front of Mordred, anchored as firmly as it once stood in the stone Merlin put it in, and Mordred bows, smug and sweeping, then meets Merlin's horror-struck gaze._

Your turn, Emrys.

_The world crumbles before him, and Merlin is glad._

X

Arthur dying isn't the worst part of Merlin's dreams. It's not even his reaction that's worst, the sheer delight he takes in absolute distruction, imaginary retaliation, an idea planted in his brain by Mordred but one that has taken on a life of his own. It's not Arthur's death at Mordred's hands, a thing that Merlin will never allow to happen, that is hardest to have in his brain, nor is it the obliteration of _everything _at Merlin's hand, something he cannot and will not ever do.

Merlin is used to bad dreams, no one could see all that he has seen and not be. He doesn't like them, wakes up sweating and cold and wanting so desperately to walk the few paces down the hall to check that Arthur is still alive, but they aren't the worst of it.

But the fact that for each dream of Arthur's death there are at least two others where Arthur doesn't even cross his mind, that for each dream that has him waking up with a hand over his mouth to muffle his terror there are so many more where the only noise he makes is a groan of displeasure that he woke before the end? That's pretty much driving him mad.

X

He bumps into Gwaine in a hallway again one afternoon, fortunately a little less literally than the last time. "Where you rushing off to?" Gwaine asks. "Always in a hurry lately, aren't you, Merlin? No time for an old friend anymore." He pauses, because dramatic effect is what Gwaine does best. "Of course, that could just be because you're too busy making new friends."

"Mordred is _not_ my friend," Merlin snaps, and, really, he should have known better than to think he could have avoided having this conversation with Gwaine, after he saw him leaving Mordred's bedroom. But he'd done so _well_, up until now.

"No? Seemed like you were getting pretty friendly with him that night." A wink and a leer accompany this, clear signs that Gwaine is joking, but it's possible that Merlin overlooks that evidence.

"Not even if we were the last two men on earth and I would die if I didn't," Merlin says. Lies, if he's being honest (he's not particularly suicidal, whatever Arthur might think, and given the choice between death and sleeping with Mordred, he'd be inclined to pick the far more sensible of the two, repugnant as he wishes he found the idea), but it's not like Gwaine knows that, and it's not like Merlin is going to act on any Mordred-centric impulses he might have.

Gwaine laughs, claps Merlin on the shoulder. "Sure thing, mate. Guessing you won't mind if I do, then."

_No_ is what Merlin should say. _No, I don't mind if you sleep with him_. "Don't, Gwaine," he says instead, a little surprised by how much closer to jealous his voice sounds than it does to concerned (even with the dreams, it's not like he actually has anything close to actual feelings for Mordred). But he is concerned, and Gwaine needs to understand that, because Merlin doesn't have time to keep an eye on him and Arthur all the time and if he has to choose between his friend and his king Gwaine isn't going to come first. "Mordred is _dangerous_, Gwaine. You need to stay away from him."

"Dangerous? Come on, Merlin. He might be handy with a sword, but you're more dangerous than Mordred is."

"Not to you," and oh, god, can he not just shut up? Nothing Merlin is saying is making this better, is going to make this better. "Mordred is a danger to every single person in this city. _Stay away from him_."

Gwaine isn't going to listen, of course – never has, never will – but what exactly is Merlin supposed to do about it? Say 'well, I tried,' and leave Gwaine to whatever trouble he wants to get himself into, just so he can focus everything on keeping Arthur alive? "Okay," he says, because Gwaine is a good guy, too good for Merlin to let him get hurt, good enough that Merlin can get him to back off, even if he doesn't like his means of doing so. "Fine, you win. I am interested in him. I just...I don't want people to know."

"I knew it!" Gwaine crows, sounding so horribly pleased. Also, horribly loud; Merlin claps his hand over his mouth, hisses for him to be quiet and waits until Gwaine nods before letting him go again. "I knew it," Gwaine repeats with a little less volume. "He's all yours, mate. Good luck."

"Thanks," Merlin mutters, trying to sound grateful as opposed to grumpy. "I have to go, though, okay?"

He doesn't wait for a reply; he's got what he needs, Gwaine's promise that he won't go after Mordred (promised for the wrong reason, maybe, but at least he'll be safe, even if it does mean he'll forever believe that Merlin wants Mordred), and it's twenty minutes since he last saw Arthur.

X

The dreams – not the nightmares, but the other ones – begin innocuously, as most dreams do.

If only they stayed that way.

X

Some way into his second week of sleeping outside Arthur's rooms, Gwen finds him. "Merlin?" she asks, shaking his shoulder gently. "Merlin, love, what are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."

"I _was_ sleeping," he tells her, because 'I've seen a vision of _Sir_ Mordred killing your husband on a battlefield some unknown period into the future and when I told him about it he said that my response was to destroy the world' is not even close to being a wise idea. "Why aren't you?"

"I am queen, Merlin. If I wish to walk through my castle in the middle of the night, there is no reason I cannot do so." She looks down at him, expression so severe, then slumps to the floor, giggling, going from queen to the girl Merlin has known for years in less than a second. "Also, Arthur snores. It's like trying to sleep next to a bear."

"Make him roll over," Merlin says, largely without thinking. "He's not quite so bad if he's on his front."

Gwen purses her lips, because whilst she knows about them, and knows he and Arthur ended when Arthur realised how he felt about her, it's not exactly something they discuss, or even acknowledge. "I'll remember that," she says after a moment, resting her head on his shoulder. "Now, why are you here?"

"Um," Merlin answers. "There's...I have a bad feeling. I'm worried. About Arthur, and...someone close to him can't be trusted."

Gwen stares at him for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Who, Merlin?"

Merlin thinks about telling her the truth, but Gwen was there when Mordred was a boy, hiding terrified in Morgana's bedroom. She was there when Arthur rescued him, and knows of Mordred returning the favour more recently; she won't believe him. No one will. "I can't tell you. He saved Arthur's life, and I can't explain to you why he's a threat."

"Right," Gwen tells him. "Well, there are guards right outside the door, and I promise to scream very loudly if someone other than Arthur or I comes into the room. Now, I think you should try sleeping in your own room for a bit, okay?"

Merlin agrees, partially because she has to be pretty chilly sitting in the hallway in just her nightgown but also because her ability to nag is just as epic and endless as Gaius'. "Yeah, I will," he says, no intention of actually doing so; the castle guards are rubbish, and Merlin would much rather trust Arthur's safety to his own hands. "Goodnight, my lady."

"Goodnight, Merlin," Gwen murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek before rising. "I'll see you tomorrow."

X

_Merlin is running through a dense wood, heart thudding, breath tearing in and out of his lungs, dizzy from lack of air and space and freedom. Trees surround him on all sides, branches stretching thickly above his head, no air no air no _air_, and he doesn't know what he's running from or what he's running to, only that he has to keep going, and he's running and running and running._

_And then he isn't._

_His back presses briefly against a tree, bark scratching roughly at his neck, then he blinks, and the soft green glow of sunlight through leaves becomes the silvery blue of moonlight through glass. The silvery blue of moonlight on pale skin, the black-blue of dark hair in a dark night, a voice calling him, husky with sleep: _"come back to bed, Emrys."

X

Sometimes that's it, just the suggestion of intimacy and the knowledge that had he not woken when he did, things would definitely have happened.

Sometimes, it isn't.

X

Merlin doesn't stop sleeping outside Arthur's room. Judging by the blanket and pillow sitting in his alcove the following evening, Gwen wasn't expecting him to.

X

_Arthur has given him a list of tasks – given him it on paper, not by speaking to him, just like in the first few _awkward_ weeks after they stopped sleeping together – most of which are ridiculously tiring and unutterably pointless, and each time Merlin crosses off the thing at the top another appears at the bottom, each more preposterous than the last._

_Needless to say, he is not particularly cheerful._

_Also, his right ear itches, and his shadow seems to be standing uncomfortably close to him today._

_He is in the stables when things get odd, having just finished teaching Arthur's finest stallion to sing soprano (yes, stallion. Yes, sing. Yes, soprano. He may or may not have used his magic to sort that one out, and even if he did it's Arthur's fault for asking him to do something so stupid). He glances down at the next item on the list – making cutlery dance, because what good is a singing horse if there's nothing to accompany it – and sighs, wondering when Arthur is going to tire of this idiocy._

"_You look tired," his shadow says, except it isn't, is it? Shadows don't talk, do they, but bloody Mordred does, stepping out of a dark corner with a soft smile on his face. "Let me help you with that."_

_Merlin intends to object, to tell Mordred to clear the hell off, get out of his space and his city and leave him to his work, but before he can open his mouth, Mordred is standing behind him, plucking at the knot in Merlin's neckerchief. He undoes it with disconcerting ease, given how long it usually takes Merlin to get it off, then reaches around him - positions reversed but still so familiar - and tucks it into the pocket on Merlin's jacket. "What are you doing?" Merlin asks, although seeing as he knows the _what _of Mordred's actions a far better question would be _why?

_Mordred's left hand threads through his hair, whisper soft, while his right hand begins work on the buttons of Merlin's jacket, fingers lingering on Merlin's chest in a deeply improper way. "I'm helping," Mordred murmurs, far too close. "You clearly need a break." His teeth nip at Merlin's earlobe (yes, _that_ close), then his tongue flicks out, soothing the damage he's just caused._

_Merlin would tell him to stop – it's not exactly like they're friends, let alone the kind of friends that do _this_ – but, to be honest, he's sort of considering the possibility that this isn't actually happening, given how frequently he's been having dreams like this of late. And if he's not awake, then there's nothing wrong with what he's doing; it's not like anyone is gagging to shag him in real life, and even if the best his own mind can do is his almost worst enemy...well, at this point, he'll take what he can get._

_Mordred tugs at Merlin's jacket, slipping it from his shoulders and down his arms, then spins him around and pushes him gently against the stable wall (thankfully, not in a stall, because Merlin would prefer Arthur's favourite stallion not compose odes about this, dream or not). Merlin reaches out for him, figuring the act of undressing really ought to be mutual, but Mordred grasps his wrists in one hand, stopping him. _No, Emrys_, he says, and next thing Merlin knows he's kneeling before him, releasing Merlin's wrists in order to unfasten his trousers. _Relax. Let me take care of you_, he adds, and this is rapidly becoming another time where the ability to talk with one's mouth is really quite handy._

_It really shouldn't be possible to do things like that with one's tongue, and there is definitely a reason speech is usually incompatible with the things Mordred is doing. But what really does Merlin in is the look on his face, innocent and young and entirely without guile. Not the bastard traitor Merlin knows he will be, but the man Merlin wishes he could be._

X

Maybe, _maybe_, if Merlin is being utterly honest, he's not doing so great lately. This thing with Mordred is getting to him, a near-constant and uncomfortably literal headache; keeping the other man out of his mind takes _effort_, far too much of it, and it's really quite unpleasant.

Although, as far as the one book Gaius has hidden away that refers to mental communication goes, he shouldn't even be able to do it; it's certainly possible in theory to keep out a weak telepath, a _taught_ telepath, Gaius' book says, but a natural? Well, first the book says such things can't possibly exist, that no one born with innate telepathic abilities could possibly survive them long enough to reach adulthood, then follows up by saying that they couldn't possibly be sane, and finally concludes that any rational-minded true telepath couldn't be deterred from getting anything and everything they ever wanted. In amongst the mess of contradictions, the only thing Merlin knows for certain is that he should be pleased the worst thing he has to deal with is a blasting headache.

So, during the day, his head is a distinctly Mordred-free place, or there abouts. Mordred is in his thoughts, in as much as Merlin cannot stop thinking of him, but he isn't actually in them himself.

Of course, that would be considerably more cheering if his libido and subconscious hadn't gone so utterly mental of late.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings:** Major character death (as with last chapter, not real). Implied suicide (again, not real, and only very vaguely implied). Not a whole lot in the way of plot. Nothing at all in the way of romance. And it should also be noted that I am once again abandonning all attempts at canon. Ugh. Just...ugh.  
**Notes:** As always, love and adoration to all of you, particularly _llauren,_ for the anonymous review, and the non-anonymous reviewers to whom I have yet to reply (will do so _soon_, I promise). I own bugger all, as per usual, and write purely because I love it. Here's hoping you do, too. Peach.

**Set in Stone  
**

**IV**

"Go find my knights," Arthur says. "Tell them I wish to speak to them, here, as soon as possible."

Merlin huffs a sigh as he scrambles to his feet, making his way to the door. No point in dallying, not when he has such a massive long list of things to do, and at least the presence of everyone will give him an interesting conversation to listen to while he works.

Unfortunately, he only makes it halfway out the door before Arthur calls him back. "And, _Mer_lin, do remember Sir Mordred this time. This matter is certainly important, but not so urgent that I will overlook you forgetting him again."

It's all Merlin can do not to slam the door behind him, pissed off as he is. He's managed so many days without speaking to Mordred, without even acknowledging his existence, and now it's going to be Arthur's fault that he has to speak to him again. Of course it is, when it's Arthur's fault he's here in the first place.

Of course it would be for him.

X

Still, just because he has to find Mordred, he doesn't have to take a long time in doing it, and he doesn't have to do so alone.

The others are easy enough to find; he passes Leon in a corridor on his way to the dining hall and sends him up to Arthur, then finds Gwaine, Elyan and Percival playing dice as they eat their way through a remarkable amount of food.

"Join us, Merlin," Gwaine says, pushing a plate of honey cakes towards him (Arthur's favourites, and now Merlin knows where they keep vanishing to and who is to blame for the chewing out he keeps getting over the king not having any on his breakfast plate).

"No time," Merlin answers, forcing a smile onto his face. "Arthur wants to talk to you lot. I've already sent Leon on his way up there." Merlin grimaces, tries to hide a sigh, and rolls his eyes. "Anyone know where Mordred is? Arthur wants him there as well."

Gwaine shrugs, stuffing another honey cake into his mouth, and Percival shakes his head. "Um," Elyan says, frowning in a not quite certain way. "The library, maybe? I know he was there, looking for something. I'll get him, if you want?"

"Would you?" Merlin answers, and he shouldn't encourage this, really shouldn't, because Elyan has already taken Mordred under his wing. He should be trying to convince Elyan to stay as far away from Mordred as possible, just like he tried to do with Gwaine and Arthur, but he isn't any more likely to believe Merlin when he says Mordred is a danger to everyone around him, and the 'you should stay away from him because I _like_ him' line isn't going to work on anyone other than Gwaine. No, Merlin accepts Elyan's offer, because at least this way he has a little longer before laying eyes on Mordred, and what is going to happen in the few minutes it'll take them to make it to Arthur's rooms? Nothing. Nothing is going to happen.

"Thanks," Merlin says, offering Elyan what is probably the most genuine smile he's managed since Mordred told him about _his_ vision of the future. "We'll see you there, in a bit."

Elyan nods, not looking in the least bit put out – why would he, when this is nothing unusual, just a way to make Merlin's life a tiny bit easier, and Elyan is a good guy, happy to help out a friend – and makes his way out.

"Surprised you didn't go look for Mordred yourself," Gwaine mutters as they make their way after Elyan, quietly enough that Merlin is the only one to hear it.

"_Do _shut up," Merlin tells him.

As predictable as ever, Gwaine just laughs.

X

"Sir Mordred, what do you know of a man called Dragoon?" Arthur asks. Merlin starts – when Arthur told him to make sure Mordred was in the group he brought here, that wasn't exactly what he was expecting – and stares at Arthur, sitting at the head of the table in his chambers.

Thankfully, Mordred seems less surprised by the question and more confused. "It is not a name I can recall having come across, sire," he answers, frowning slightly. "May I inquire as to why you are asking?"

_No_, Merlin hopes, really really hard, but not quite enough to actually direct his thoughts at anyone; the migraines may be pretty much constant by now, but that doesn't mean Merlin is going to reduce the walls keeping his brain his own, and it's hardly a good way to let Arthur discover his magic. It being nothing more than a thought in his own head, it's hardly surprising that Arthur manages to ignore Merlin's wish for this not to be discussed, at all, ever.

"I trust that what I am about to tell you will not leave this room," Arthur says, waiting for a nod from everyone before carrying on. "When my father was dying," he says slowly, glancing briefly at Merlin and Gwen, who know this, and Leon and the others, who don't, "I would have done anything within my power to save him, including breaking my father's laws."

"You sought out a sorcerer," Leon states, not a question. "This man, Dragoon?"

Arthur doesn't answer, but then he doesn't really have to. "Given that your father is no longer with us, am I to take it that this sorcerer double crossed you?" Mordred murmurs, without even a hint of surprise, but then who would be? No sane person of magic would willingly save Uther's life, and anyone with even the slightest knowledge of magic would understand that. Arthur's attempt was doomed to failure, or would have been, if Merlin wasn't such a fool.

"So I believed, although I have been reliably informed otherwise. Gaius tells me Dragoon did all he could to save my father, and that he failed was due to Morgana's interference."

The tone of the room is definitely one of surprise now; even Gwen looks a little shocked, and Merlin realises that up until this moment, only he, Gaius and Arthur knew that his attempt to save Uther was genuine. "I can think of only one man likely to risk the wrath of all magical persons in order to save their greatest persecutor," Mordred says after a minute, and Merlin feels the pressure in his head treble, squeezing and sharp and far worse than it has been since the first time he kept Mordred out of his mind. He waits for something more, some sly hint about who this fool who would try save Uther is, even though he knows Mordred's oath means he can't say anything that directly reveals who Merlin really is. Mordred is silent, however, seemingly content to say nothing further.

Which, of course, is more than enough for Merlin, but somewhat less than Arthur wants to hear. "And this person is...?"

"I am not free to say," Mordred states, calm and resolute, and Merlin is grateful that the oath they swore is holding up. "Even if I was, I would not do so," he continues; that is unexpected, and his voice sounds unexpectedly sincere, too. "You owe him too much for me to endanger his well-being by doing so, my lord."

Merlin can't hide his sceptical snort at this, although it's possible he could have tried slightly harder to do so. But, really, why should Mordred care about keeping Merlin's secret, when he has only good reasons to want him discovered and dead? Why should Mordred keep trying to force his way in, push pass Merlin's mental and emotional defences, other than to get past the biggest and most obstinate obstacle between he and Arthur's corpse?

No one else notices his disbelief, though, so busy are they staring at Mordred. No one but Mordred, at least, who manages to convey all the wry amusement of a raised eyebrow and small smile with little more than a brief flicker of his eyes towards Merlin. "Is that treason?" Gwaine asks after a moment, not quite making it to the joking tone Merlin suspects he was aiming for. "I think that's treason."

"The world is a great deal larger than this one kingdom, glorious though it may be," Mordred answers, and for the first time this conversation Arthur seems to have all of his attention, so much so that Merlin deems it safe to relax the borders in his mind, releasing the tension and earning himself a few seconds without pain, then slams them back up again, because Mordred's attention can shift back to him in less than a second. "Not all lands share in Camelot's prejudices. I was, as you know, sire, raised within the Druid faith; if it is treason to hold true to my beliefs, then you should either banish or execute me now, because I will not change them."

"Not necessary," Arthur says. "Druids have been given the freedom to move through and live in Camelot for several years now." He pauses, waiting for Mordred's nod – of gratitude? Understanding? Merlin knows not what – then continues. "Sorcery, however, is still a crime, as is protecting those guilty of it."

Mordred says nothing this time, merely stands and looks at Arthur, waiting. He has to know how fine a line he's walking, the risks of declaring his allegiance to magic (which he is, because anything other than an outright denial of the rightness of magic is taken by a Pendragon as an expression of loyalty to it), but he doesn't balk, not at all.

"You would die before saying anything of him, this man you believe I owe so much to?"

"I would," Mordred promises, swears. His eyes are fixed on Arthur, but Merlin can feel his attention on him again, the weight of another mind against his own. _I mean it, Emrys_, Mordred tells him and him alone, and Merlin sways with the force of the intrusion, with how utterly incapable he is of keeping him out. _Oath or not, I would say nothing of you_.

"In that case," Arthur states, as first Merlin's left knee gives out, followed quickly by his right, "I should probably meet him."

Merlin misses anything that might have followed this, what with his body hitting the floor pretty damn hard.

X

_Arthur crumples to the ground, mud streaking his hair, eyes open and empty. No sword this time, no symbols, just Merlin's king and friend and once-upon-a-time lover, dead in the dirt._

_No rage, either. No senseless, mindless violence, no wanton destruction and hatred so deep that Merlin drowns in it, welcomes it, wraps it around himself like a blanket, the one remaining source of warmth now that his king is gone. Instead there is just grief, an emptiness more vast than anything Merlin has ever known. There is the night sky without stars, the morning without a sunrise, the most loveless of loveless marriages, and all these are nothing compared to the howling abyss of loss that is dragging Merlin in._

_He drops to his knees beside Arthur and hauls him into his lap, unheeding of the blood and mud that covers him. "Please," he begs, pressing his face to Arthur's and trying push the life back into him, his own life, if that's what it takes to bring him back. "Arthur, please. _Please_."_

He's gone, Emrys_, Mordred says in his mind, and Merlin feels a hand in his hair._

_Merlin raises his head to look at him, immediately missing the heat of Arthur's still-warm body against his skin. He looks inside himself for the hatred, the will to destroy anything and everything that is responsible for taking his king from him, and finds nothing._

_Merlin stares into the eyes that took from him, from the world, the greatest king to ever walk this earth, and feels only compassion, almost pity, for this man and the path destiny has forced him down._

He's gone, Merlin_, Mordred says again. _I had no choice_._

_He reaches out a hand to Merlin, to help him to his feet again, and the grief on his face is not a match for Merlin's, nothing ever could be, but it is still so much more than he could ever have anticipated seeing there. And he knows what he should say, he should tell Mordred that there is _always_ a choice, should smite him where he stands for what he has done, cruel and destructive and beyond human, but he can't. He can't._

_Merlin slips Arthur's body from his knees, laying him on the ground carefully, neatly, closes his eyes and wipes the filth of battle from him, and just like that, Arthur could be sleeping, a quick nap in one of the oddest places for it. He presses his lips to Arthur's just once, something for Arthur to take with him into the next world, to wake up with his lips tingling, filled with the knowledge that in this life, he was loved. In all lives, he will be loved._

_Merlin uses the drape of his body over Arthur's to hide his actions, pulling the knife from Arthur's belt and hiding it inside his jacket, then takes the hand Mordred offers him, lets him pull him to his feet._

"_I understand," Merlin tells him, a kiss to Mordred's forehead, his cheek, tastes the salt of Mordred's tears on his lips. "I understand," he repeats, letting Mordred press close into his arms, clinging tightly. And he does understand, does know how hard it is to stray from the path that destiny sets before you, how little free will matters when you have the weight of the world fighting against you. Merlin understands, but he does not forgive._

_The knife slips between Mordred's ribs, straight to his heart, and only then does Merlin kiss him truly, lips to bloody lips, guiding his worst enemy and most understanding friend through his last breaths._

"_Goodbye, Mordred," he says, torn between letting him drop carelessly to the ground and laying him down gently, offering him the same last respect as he offered Arthur. The latter wins, whether or not it should, and Merlin rises just as carefully as he knelt, wiping blood from his mouth and tears from his face._

_Not that it matters, now that Arthur and Mordred are gone, now that destiny has played her last card. There are gone, Merlin has failed, and now the only life he has left to end is his own._

X

"Gaius," Mordred shouts from Merlin's bedside. "Gaius, he's awake!"

The steps to Merlin's room creak noisily as someone walks up them, the hinges of his door squeak. Gaius is the first to enter, then Arthur and Gwen, then everyone else, and Merlin doesn't think his room has ever been this full.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings:** language, mindfuckery, a rather large lack of ethics, a particular sentence that seems mildly ironic (at least to me) in light of the last episode (for anyone who is interested, it was definitely an improvement on the previous one, even with the absence of Mordred). Also, Gwaine gets what he deserves for trying to interfere with every single one of my stories (no, I don't mean that). And Mordred (yes, it merits a warning. I am a long way from convinced of my ability to write him).  
**Other stuff:** gratitude to all my lovely reviewers, particularly those who I cannot reply to: _Charlie_, _BloodyMirror_, _llauren_, whoever it is that left their name as _G__uest_, and the anonymous review from a few chapters ago that I believe to have been left by _Thien_(?). This chapter is excessively long (compared to all the others, at least), but there was no decent place to break it. Hope you enjoy. Later, Peach.

**Set in Stone  
**

**V  
**

"Merlin," Arthur says, exasperation not quite managing to mask his concern. "Honestly, just the mention of me meeting a sorcerer and you faint like a little girl."

"You worried?" Merlin snipes in return, trying to make the blur of his world resolve more precisely into the faces he knows are there.

He is saved from further need for conversation by Gaius, who picks this moment to lean over Merlin, staring into his eyes from a disconcertingly close distance. "How's your head?" Gaius asks, then promptly starts poking him, which, you know, not exactly helpful.

"Still hurts," Merlin answers, squirming away from the hands prising open his eyelids and searching for lumps on his skull. "What happened?"

"Our king's summation, whilst not necessarily kind, was certainly accurate," Gaius tells him, casting a disapproving glance at Arthur, probably the only person still alive in the kingdom who could get away with it without comment. "You fainted-"

"Like a little girl," Arthur cuts in, then receives Gwen's elbow in his stomach.

"I believe Sir Mordred caught you before you hit the ground," Gaius continues. "It is he you have to thank for the absence of severe bruising."

Merlin hmphs quietly, fights against the politeness his mother has forced into him since he was a child (Arthur is an exception to that rule, for good reason), loses, and mumbles, "thank you, Mordred."

"You're welcome, Merlin. I'm just glad I saw you fall in time." Mordred smiles, innocence and youth and sincerity that cannot be genuine. _Smug git_, Merlin thinks, then pokes tentatively at the walls around his mind, finds them tender – if intangible, metaphorical walls can even be tender – but firm. His head is his own again, at least until such time as Mordred feels the need to convey something with particular urgency and force, and even then he'll only have to deal with the intrusion for seconds before he repeats his sudden lack of consciousness.

Which, of course, is not really a good thing, since all Mordred needs to do to get to Arthur is think really hard at Merlin, but since it's not something he can do anything about it's a problem he just has to ignore.

"Well," Gaius says, when Merlin has decided that no, it's not actually possible to feel any more like an insect under a magnifying glass. "You don't seem to have sustained any lasting damage. A day of bed rest, preferably in your own bed for once, and you should be fine."

Now, Merlin loves Gaius like a father, but did he really have to say that when everyone else was there to hear it?

On the plus side, at least Gwaine has the good manners (or sense of self-preservation, Merlin isn't sure which is least unlikely) to wait until Gaius has left the room before demanding to know just who Merlin had been sleeping with.

X

Twenty deeply excruciating minutes later, Merlin succeeds in convincing Gwaine to give up asking, without having to confess to what probably seems like stalking to anyone who doesn't know how things are going to turn out. He's not entirely sure that Gwaine believes him when he says he isn't sleeping in anyone's bed (or having sex with anyone, he emphasises, when Gwaine points out that doing so does not necessarily require a bed), but he at least believes that he's not going to get anything out of Merlin and has the good grace to quit, leaving and taking Arthur, Leon, Elyan and Percival with him.

Which would all be good and well, but for the fact that the two people left in his room are now Gwen, who knows exactly where Merlin has been spending his nights, and Mordred, who is the reason for Merlin staying there.

The pair of them stare at each other for a long moment, fighting silently (or so Merlin surmises) over who gets to talk to him in private. It isn't particularly surprising when Gwen loses, not when Merlin has firsthand experience of how forceful a personality Mordred has, but he can't say he didn't hope for her to win.

"Gaius is right, Merlin," Gwen says, making for the door. "You should stop sleeping- where you've been sleeping. It's not doing you any good."

"Thanks for the advice," Merlin tells her, with every ounce of sincerity he can muster, because he is grateful that she worries about him, that he matters enough for her to worry. But he has no doubt that however worried Gwen might be about him, she'd be far more worried about Arthur if she knew the reason for Merlin's concern. And even if she wouldn't be, he's more than worried enough for the pair of them.

"You don't need to thank me, Merlin. Following it would be gratitude enough." She frowns, and Merlin knows that she knows exactly how low the odds of him doing so are. "Would you listen to Arthur, if I told him what you've been doing?"

"What do you think?" Merlin laughs. "Gwen, I love you, but you're not changing my mind on this." He pauses, then glances at Mordred, feeling the need to emphasise this, even if the meaning of his words is somewhat decreased by Mordred not knowing about him staying outside Arthur's rooms. "_No one_ is changing my mind on this. Don't waste your time trying."

Gwen smiles, sweet and sad, then leaves, looking swiftly between Mordred and Merlin before deciding to close the door behind her as she goes. Because that, obviously, was just what Merlin wanted.

X

"I'm sorry," Mordred says, the words almost tripping over themselves in their attempt to escape him, and Merlin guesses the other man knows just how little time he has in here before Merlin gets rid of him. "I thought you were just ignoring me. Had I known the damage you were doing to yourself trying to keep me out, I would have stopped trying to communicate with you some time ago."

"And you expect me to believe that?" Merlin asks, abrupt and angry.

"No, not really. But it would be nice if you did."

"I'm not stupid, Mordred. I know who you are, and I know what you intend to do."

Mordred stares back at him, unblinking and sceptical. "If you really think that, why am I still alive?"

"I've killed enough of our kind," Merlin tells him, hearing the sadness, the guilt in his voice, but if Mordred thinks his remorse makes him weak he is _wrong_. As much as Merlin regrets all the deaths he is responsible for, he accepts their necessity; when the options are Arthur or a person of magic, someone Merlin should consider a brother and a friend, there is not truly a choice at all. Arthur will always win. "I _will_ stop you, there is no doubt of that, but if I can do so without a child's blood on my hands, I will."

"I am not a child, Emrys," Mordred hisses, leaning in close; Merlin suspects he's going for menacing, but all it really comes off as is petulant, which sort of proves his point. "I was the last time you tried to kill me, but not now."

And then there are words in Merlin's head, words he is powerless to stop, filled with a rage that is everything and nothing all at once. _Keep your reasons to yourself, Emrys, but do not try to placate me with what we both know are lies_.

Mordred stands then, the expression on his face one of youthful rage, burning bright and burning quickly, and Merlin wishes he was right. If Mordred wasn't so _young_, Merlin could kill him without hesitation, could dream about him without hating himself (or without hating himself quite so much, since the fact that Mordred is destined to destroy everything Merlin is destined to protect is at least as much of a concern as Mordred's age). This could all be over and done with, one way or another.

"Get out of here, Mordred," Merlin snarls. "You live because I let you, and you live for as long as I let you. Do not tempt me."

Mordred turns, his cloak billowing around him, and storms out, the anger in his stride competition for Merlin's own.

X

_Well_, Mordred thinks, slamming the door to Emrys' room and slumping against it, trying to calm the angry pounding of his heart. _That_ _went_ _well_.

For once, Mordred thinks Emrys might actually agree with him. Of course, that's ruined by the fact that Emrys wouldn't agree in the slightest with what he's planning right now.

The castle is full of discreet alcoves, doors no one opens, rooms no one uses. It is not at all difficult for Mordred to find a suitable hiding place within sight of the doors to the physician's chambers, a place he can watch from, to see if Emrys leaves them. Or to see when he leaves them, as is more accurate, since he has good as confessed his intent to resume whatever abnormal sleeping arrangements he has been having to the queen.

What can he say? He's curious.

And, apparently, he's not the only one, since the hiding place he chooses (an empty cupboard, concealed well enough behind a tapestry that Mordred wouldn't have noticed it if the door wasn't slightly open) is already occupied when he gets there.

"Um," Sir Gwaine says, sheepish grin on his face. "I was...um..."

"Waiting to see if Merlin leaves, and if so follow him wherever it is he's going?" Mordred asks, since it hardly takes a mind-reader to fill in the gaps. Not that he does that, much. He tries not to go where he isn't welcome, except when he considers it necessary.

Gwaine shrugs, laughs, and moves over far enough for Mordred to join him in the cupboard. "Not going to tell him, are you?"

"He wouldn't believe me. Em-Merlin is not particularly fond of me." And that sort of slip is something he should be better than, something he would be better than, were this matter with Emrys not weighing so heavily on his mind. Mordred would continue to point out that telling Emrys would hardly be wise, given that his plan is the same as Gwaine's, but he is rather more interested in how amusing Gwaine seems to find this sentence. "Did I say something funny?"

"Since I expected to follow Merlin to your room tonight, yes. I find the idea that you don't think he likes you really quite entertaining."

Mordred lets this pass without comment, largely in order to give his surprise time to subside. Which isn't to say that the idea is a new one to him – the thought of being at the centre of that much power, of having someone of Emrys' strength all to himself, is certainly an intoxicating one, and Mordred has definitely enjoyed entertaining it from time to time - but it has never occurred to him that Emrys may reciprocate his interest. Why would it, when Emrys could have anyone, and yet seems to want no one? Why would it, when Emrys keeps insisting that Mordred is just a _child_?

This is nothing more than the ramblings of a drunk, Mordred concludes, and not something he should be concerning himself about, particularly not when-

"There he is," Mordred murmurs under his breath as the door to Gaius' room creaks open. They peer through the gap between door and wall, the tapestry being a somewhat less effective block to vision from this side.

"And there he goes," Gwaine mutters in reply, just as softly. "After you."

X

They follow Merlin at a cautious distance, and Mordred is impressed by how silently Gwaine manages to move, despite his armour and the infernal cloaks the king likes them to wear. Mordred doesn't make a whole lot more noise, but then he has assistance that Gwaine does not, and it barely counts as magic at all to muffle the gentle chime of his mail, the soft whisper of his cloak on the stone floor.

Emrys seems twitchy, although Mordred doesn't know if that's something new or if he always glances over his shoulder every few steps when creeping around the castle unaccompanied in the evening. The only time he's particularly seen Emrys outside of the company of the king or his friends has been when Emrys was following him, and he made no attempt to be discreet or unobserved then; what good is a threat, a warning, if the intended recipient doesn't know that you're making it?

Today, though, Emrys seems far from unconcerned, and intent on not being noticed. He pauses each time he hears a noise, ducks into doorways every time someone approaches and, once, turns so fast that Mordred has to yank Gwaine into the shadows, a hand over his mouth to stop him crying out in surprise.

"That was close, huh?" Gwaine mutters when Mordred releases him after Emrys has carried on walking, apparently decided that there is no one behind him.

It doesn't take too long for Emrys' destination to become obvious, and Mordred kicks himself for not seeing it sooner. He knows already what Emrys would risk for his king, knows that the queen knows where Emrys has been staying, knows that things aren't always what they seem. Emrys isn't sleeping with someone; he's trying to protect the king, has failed entirely to see why Mordred told him of his vision.

The closer they get to the royal chambers, the more confused Gwaine looks, but then what reason does he have to suspect? Mordred could enlighten him, possibly should, but he can imagine the thoughts running through Gwaine's head and, really, they're fairly entertaining.

"You think...?" Gwaine asks, reaching up to whisper in Mordred's ear. "Arthur?"

"Not for a few years," Mordred answers. It's something close to common knowledge (Mordred has heard rumours of how close Emrys and the king used to be, which is how he is able to say it, even though he has seen the confirmation for himself in Emrys' brain), and Gwaine, for all that he seems something of an irresponsible lout, can probably be trusted not to share this with anyone who doesn't already know it, assuming he doesn't know it himself.

Gwaine falls silent for a moment or two, then stops walking again. "Gwen?"

"If the king ended things with Merlin when he fell for Guinevere, do you really think he'd be understanding of the pair of them?"

Gwaine nods, not noticing Mordred's smile (he wasn't even aware Emrys had an interest in women, apart from his cat-girl years ago), then falls silent again, until, "Both of them?"

They round the final corner to the royal chambers before Mordred has time to answer, at which point answering becomes unnecessary (fortunate, since Mordred has yet to think up anything more diplomatic than 'that's ridiculous'); Emrys is not entering Arthur and Guinevere's room, but is instead standing with his back to Gwaine and Mordred, arranging several pillows and a stack of blankets in an alcove.

Gwaine stares for a moment, then retreats back around the corner, waving for Mordred to follow him. "Okay, not what I was expecting," he says quietly. "Any idea why he's sleeping outside his ex-lover's bedroom? Preferably an explanation that doesn't make him a stalker, because Merlin is my friend and that's creepy as fuck."

"He's very protective," Mordred suggests, aware that this is a truth he perhaps shouldn't share, but Gwaine's opinions are, for the most part, entertaining. "Perhaps he feels Arthur is in danger somehow."

"P'rhaps. It's certainly a little less creepy than stalking." They retreat further as Mordred debates whether pointing out that what they're doing could easily be considered stalking. "In danger from what? Or who, I suppose."

Ah. That would be why Mordred shouldn't indulge his own amusement. He knows exactly what Merlin is trying to protect Arthur from, and knows just how far he'd go to keep him safe. He also knows that he can't tell Gwaine that, just in case he decides to agree with Merlin's opinion of him. Somehow, he doesn't think anything less than a proper answer will suffice, and he isn't going to endanger anyone else by giving Gwaine someone else's name. Lying is not an option, nor is telling the truth, and Gwaine is unlikely to allow him to remain silent, which leaves him only one choice.

Mordred reaches out with his mind, searching for other presences. He skips over Emrys, a force that burns brighter than the sun, trapped inside a bubble that is cracked and damaged, leaking wisps of light, and Mordred needs to get him to stop that, let go of whatever walls he's tried to put up, because nothing good can come of this.

Moving further afield, the king is a force to be reckoned with, too, impassioned red, no thought of defences or restrictions, and his mind would be so, so _easy_ to slip inside and take over, warp and rot from the inside out until he is nothing more than a puppet, and Mordred has to force himself on to the next mind (the queen, cool blue, calm and reasonable and so much harder for someone else to control because of it, reason always harder to manipulate than passion) before the temptation becomes too great.

He reaches further, past greens and oranges and pinks and purples and every other colour under the sun, searching for an empty space, a place with no people where he can go and deal with this problem he's caused.

"Come on," Mordred says, wrapping his hand around Gwaine's forearm. "We can't talk about this here." He tugs Gwaine further from Emrys and the king, pulling him into an empty room and shutting the door behind them.

"You do realise this is someone's bedroom, don't you?" Gwaine asks, and there would be the unfortunate downside of Mordred's ability to sense minds; he can see if a room is empty, but not what the inside of the room is like.

"Not important," Mordred tells him, whirling and shoving Gwaine back against the door, a hand over his mouth.

_You left Merlin's room_, he pushes into Gwaine's mind, and god, it feels so good to do this. It's been so long since the last time, and Mordred has _tried_ to forget what this is like, what it is to put himself into someone else's head and _play_.

_You left, you hid in the cupboard. The queen left, then I did. I did not see you, I did not speak to you, we did not follow Merlin together_. He pauses for just a moment, catching his breath, trying to control his exhilaration. He needs to think about this, think about the best way to do this; he needs to protect the secret of his and Emrys' magic, needs to prevent Gwaine from asking too much about this. And, if he can, he needs to get Emrys talk to him as soon as possible. He needs Emrys to know about this, needs Emrys to know what he is doing, because there is no chance he will let it lie when he does. He needs Emrys, to make sure that he won't have to do this again.

_You waited_ alone _until Merlin left, then followed him. He led you through the castle, to my room. You saw him enter, waited long enough to be sure he wasn't going to leave again, then returned to your own room. You will not remember this room, or me, or this conversation. You will not speak of this with anyone other than Merlin._

Mordred stares into Gwaine's eyes, vacant like an empty room, and fights to stop. He has to, he knows, because what he is doing – this tiny, fleeting change, no more than an hour of memories altered – is risking enough, maybe too much. He has to, because changing too much can cause permanent damage, and Emrys might have let him live so far, for whatever reason, but causing deliberate and irreparable harm to one of his friends is not something he will forgive. Mordred needs to _stop_.

He pulls himself back into his own head, and the hurt of it takes the edge off his delight. His skull scrapes the edges of his thoughts, or so it feels, like being trapped in a box that is smaller than he is, hurtshurtshurtshurts_hurts_, and it isn't, he won't, he can't, he has to. This is not something he has a choice about.

"Get out," Mordred snarls aloud, needing to get himself away from Gwaine, from temptation, from _anyone_, until he can get this back under control. "_Go!_"

Gwaine leaves, the perfect puppet, and Mordred knows that he has succeeded, that this whole event has been wiped from his mind, replaced with a version of events that removes the need for explanations Mordred cannot give, all so, _so _easily. It gets easier each time, easier to break his way into someone's head and make their memories his own, easier to remake their world into what he wants it to be. Easier to start, each time he does it, and always harder to stop.

Mordred closes the door with his magic, locks it, barricades it with furniture. It's not his room, but that really can't matter, not when there are so many people outside, living and breathing, laughing and fighting and fucking, so many toys for him to play with, and none of them has the power to stop him. Not even Emrys with all his magic, not with those _walls, _feeble and so very fragile, weakened by all the times Mordred has tried to communicate with him since he put them up. The world could be his, and not one person has the power to change that.

He shakes, nerves raw and stinging from the exertion of locking himself back in his own head, and stumbles over to the bed that is not his, fighting back sobs. He wraps himself in some stranger's blankets like he wants to wrap himself in their minds, shivering and alone, curled up on the cold, stone floor, still more than he deserves.

He doesn't want this, but without Emrys' help, he doesn't know how to stop it.

X

The Mordred Merlin dreams of that night is different.

There is no violence, no sorrow, no rage or loss. No one dies, not Arthur or Mordred or any of the men who fight for them. No sex, either, and together those two absences make this one different to any other dream he has had of him.

Mordred cries softly, arms wrapped around his legs, head resting on his knees, naked in the dark. He doesn't answer when Merlin asks him why, doesn't move when Merlin tries to get him to, doesn't raise his eyes to meet Merlin's.

All Merlin can do is sit beside him, wrapping him in his arms. "Don't," he says, pressing his mouth to Mordred's shoulder. "Please don't. I'll help you, please."

Mordred shakes harder, falling apart in Merlin's arms, clinging like a child, like Merlin is the only thing keeping him whole.

X

Merlin wakes with a bitter taste in his mouth that no amount of rinsing can get rid of. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was regret.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warnings: **Language, and a fair bit of it. Mature scenes, possibly dubiously consensual in nature. Violence, imagined and otherwise. Madness, both mine and the characters. Gwaine, and I swear I'm only mean to him because I love him.  
**Notes:** Merlin is not mine, and never will be. Gratitude again to _BloodyMirror_, and also to _The Perfect Narcissist_, to whom I could not reply. Love to everyone who reads and reviews, and even those who just read. Here's hoping this one is everything you all want it to be. It better be, because the chances of an update next week are slim to none; my sister is a dear but probably won't appreciate me using her laptop and internet to post fics of a non-heterosexual variety. So yeah. Chapter seven as soon as I can manage it. Until then, Peach.

**Set in Stone.**

**VI  
**

"You," Gwaine smirks, advancing on Merlin in an unnaturally predatory way, "are a liar. A lying liar who lies, and clearly has no love for his friends at all."

_Well, duh_ is Merlin's first thought, quickly followed by _fuck_.

"What?" He says, sounding somewhat shaky and possibly less than sincere, but then that's only to be expected. There is no doubt that Merlin lies, to everyone, and quite a lot, but, in his defence, it's not because he doesn't love his friends. In fact, it's mostly _because_ he loves them that he lies, because telling the truth could mean his life, and it's maybe immodest but not necessarily an exaggeration to think that it would mean their lives as well.

"Mordred," Gwaine answers. Merlin thinks for a moment that this is a good thing, that he has somehow clued in to how dangerous Mordred is, but then he registers just how broadly Gwaine is grinning. And waggling his eyebrows. And, when Merlin still isn't entirely sure what he's getting at, resorting to lewd hand gestures.

"What!?" Merlin repeats, his voice this time considerably more shrill. Freakishly so, actually; it takes particular effort to lower his pitch enough to continue, because if Merlin ever hears himself anywhere close to that high he'll have to magically mute himself somehow. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about" Gwaine says loudly, that infuriating smirk still on his face. "You. Mordred. _That_." He repeats the gesture, just in case Merlin missed it the first time (he didn't. He really, really didn't), then rolls his eyes. "Sex, Merlin. It means sex."

"Yes," Merlin says, making no effort to hide his exasperation. "Yes, I _know_ what-" goddamnit, he's making the gesture "-is. I just don't know what it has to do with me."

Unfortunately (or not, possibly, since it pretty much brings about the end of this conversation), Arthur happens to be in the vicinity. Which wouldn't be so bad, if Merlin had dropped his hands as quickly as he could have done. As it is, however...

"Merlin!" Arthur exclaims, expression quite possibly verging on appalled. It lasts almost no time at all before turning to curiosity. "What are we talking about?"

"I have no idea," Merlin answers, just as Gwaine says, "I can't tell you." Which wouldn't be so odd, maybe, but for the utter conviction with which he says it, enough to draw both Merlin and Arthur's attention.

"Oh, but you'll talk to me about whatever this rubbish is," Merlin mutters, although anything involving himself and sex is not exactly a conversation he wants to have with Arthur.

"He's just Merlin," Arthur says, in a way he probably intends to be closer to imperiousness than whining. "I am your king, Sir Gwaine."

"I can't tell you," Gwaine repeats, then grins, smug and knowingly, although what he thinks he knows Merlin has no idea. "Later, Merlin. Don't think you're getting away without telling me anything."

With that, he saunters off, whistling to himself in an irksomely cheerful way.

"What was that about, _Mer_lin?" Arthur asks, when Gwaine is gone.

Merlin shrugs, shaking his head. "Gwaine being Gwaine, I reckon. Half of any given conversation with him is going to be nonsense. Like I said, not a clue what he's talking about."

Arthur doesn't seem happy about letting this go, but let it go he does, if only because Merlin turns his back on him mid-protest. "Things to do, sire," he says. "Your armour won't clean itself, you know."

Arthur sputters, but, since Merlin is actually offering to do his job, his grounds for complaint are pretty damn unstable. Definitely a trick Merlin is going to remember and reuse, he thinks, trying not to make his relief obvious as he heads towards Arthur's room.

X

Merlin feels Mordred's eyes on him all evening, as he serves Arthur his dinner in the hall. When combined with Gwaine's smirks and Arthur's confused glances, Merlin is not having the best of days.

It's all fucking Mordred's fault, he decides. Sure, Merlin doesn't know how, but it is, and he hopes to god that whatever Mordred sees when he goes to sleep at night, it unsettles him just as much as Merlin's dreams do.

X

_Mordred stands with his back to the room, facing the window. He doesn't react when Merlin opens the door, doesn't turn when he closes it again, and Merlin thinks at first that there must be something really interesting in the forest, something coming for the castle. It's only when he conjures a light in the previously dark room, a soft glow that comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once, that Merlin catches sight of his reflection in the window, the light inside and the darkness out turning the glass as reflective as a well-polished sword._

_Mordred's eyes are scrunched up, closed as tightly as it is possible to be. His lips are pressed together in a harsh line, and his hands grip the cold stone sill of the window like it's the only thing holding him up, but not quite hard enough to hide the fine trembling of his muscles._

"_Mordred?" Merlin asks, and reminds himself that this is just a dream, not real, and however much animosity there might be between them in waking life, here he is allowed to care. Here, he is allowed to show that he cares. The concerned lilt to his voice is acceptable; it is not something he has to hide. "What is it?"_

_Mordred's eyes open, meeting Merlin's in the mirrored glass. "I'm tired, Emrys," he says softly, with all the heavy sadness of a man twice his age. "I'm tired of being your enemy."_

You chose this_, Merlin would say, if this was the real Mordred he was speaking to. _No one is forcing you into the future we've seen. No one is making you kill my king_. It's stupid, though, to berate a figment of his subconscious for the actions of a real person, and since, in truth, he doesn't really want to, he doesn't. This is his head; if he wants to be Mordred's ally, his friend, his lover, then what is there to stop him?_

"_Then don't be," he says, crossing the room to stand by Mordred and resting a hand on his shoulder, still meeting the reflection of his eyes in the windowpane. "Be someone else."_

"_You say that like it's easy," Mordred challenges, turning to face Merlin, and he still sounds so sorrowful, so lost._

"_You say it like it's not," Merlin answers, because this is _his _dream and his dreams are supposed to be without the drama and difficulty of his waking life. Sure, there's the nightmares, but this isn't one of them. He steps closer, well within arms' reach, then closer again, so that a deep breath from either of them will bring their torsos into contact. "For now, we don't have to be on different sides. Just...let it go."_

_Merlin draws him into his arms, holding him close, and feels the sharp tenseness with which Mordred holds himself. It lasts almost no time at all before Mordred slumps into him, arms wrapping around Merlin's back to clutch at his shirt. "Emrys," Mordred murmurs, the word snagging on Merlin's shirt. "Merlin, Emrys, Merlin," he continues, on and on, just his name, or names, over and over. Something like a prayer, maybe, but the level of desperation in it is beyond anything in Merlin's experience, and he's prayed pretty damn hard at times._

"_I'm here," he promises, stroking up and down Mordred's back, willing to hold on, to wait for as long as necessary. "I'm here, it's okay. I'm here."_

_Mordred pulls back after what could be mere moments or all of eternity, letting go of Merlin before wriggling free of Merlin's hold on him. "I can explain," he says, shakily. "Please, Emrys. I can."_

Screw that_, Merlin thinks, says. "It doesn't matter, not now. Not here."_

Here?_ Mordred mouths, then makes an 'oh' of understanding. "You think..." He laughs wryly, without much in the way of amusement. "No, you know what, I'll take what I can get."_

_Merlin squints at him, confused, but Mordred looks almost hopeful and sort of sweet, and if he can let whatever his concern is go, so can Merlin. He tilts Mordred's chin up, lowers his own, and leans in slowly._

_The first brush of their lips is quiet, hesitant, and seems to come as a surprise to Mordred, despite how thoroughly Merlin telegraphed his intent. "This okay?" Merlin asks softly, still so close that he can feel Mordred's breath on his face. He's not sure why he's asking, because his imagination isn't exactly going to say no to him (and if it does, he has far bigger problems), but it seems courteous, somehow right. "If you don't want it, that's fine."_

I told you, Emrys_, Mordred answers, the first time he's dipped into thought-speech this conversation. _I'll take what I can get_. Rather than leaning back in, he steps back until he's pressed against the wall again, only then drawing Merlin in after him._

X

"Were you serious?" Merlin asks. It's been bugging him since he regained consciousness, pretty much, but he's put off asking about it, mostly because he isn't entirely sure he wants to hear Arthur's answer.

"Was I serious about what, Merlin?" Arthur replies, in that tone he uses when he thinks Merlin is being an idiot but is feeling generous enough to humour him. Not that Merlin hears all that many other tones from him, but still, it merits note.

Merlin pauses in making Arthur and Gwen's bed, turning to look at him instead, because he's just realised how much he needs to see his face for this. "When you told Mordred that you'd have to meet the sorcerer he says has helped you. Were you serious about it?"

Arthur frowns, putting away his papers and staring up at Merlin from his seat. "I was," he says quietly, and Merlin doesn't miss his use of the past tense, doesn't know if he feels relieved or disappointed. "It seemed a wise idea at the time." He breaks eye contact, focusing instead on his hands, steepling his fingers, then moving them apart, and back again, on and on.

"And now?"

"Now...? I don't know, Merlin." A second pause, a sigh, then something close to a smile, although not necessarily a happy one. "Guinevere doesn't like it. Leon is worried, too. Between them, I've probably heard every possible reason why this isn't a good idea. But I suppose you want to make sure, right, _Mer_lin?"

"No," Merlin says, surprised by both his vehemence and how quickly he crosses the room to kneel (_kneel_) beside Arthur. "No. I don't...maybe Mordred is right. Magic is...you've survived a lot, Arthur, everyone has, and it doesn't always make sense." He puts a hand on Arthur's knee, the sort of contact that was common between them once but hasn't been in a while, but a connection is necessary now. He isn't telling Arthur who he is, he isn't quite ready for that yet, but telling Arthur to trust magic is not something he does often, and it hasn't particularly ended well in the past.

It's not just magic he's telling Arthur to trust, though. It's his magic. It's him.

"If someone has saved your life, you should know who they are," Merlin tells him, because this much Arthur can agree with, is something he has agreed with in the past. It's what he has to say next that is revolutionary, risky, right. "I don't know that it should matter if it was magic or a sword they saved you with."

Arthur's hand reaches out, stroking his thumb along Merlin's cheekbone, intimate and, after so long since they ended, foreign. "Are you sure about this, Merlin?"

Merlin pulls back – this is not who he is anymore, not who Arthur is, not something either of them wants, particular when there is Gwen to think of – and stands, a final pat to Arthur's knee before stepping away. "It's your choice, Arthur. I won't take that from you, and I won't make it for you." And then he smiles, that big, guileless grin Arthur is used to, the _I'm just Merlin, nothing to see here _grin that has put an end to so many serious conversations and aborted countless worrisome almost-discoveries. "Think about it, sire. I'll just get back to work."

X

I'll take what I can get, _Mordred says, stepping back against the window and pulling Merlin after him._

_Merlin lets Mordred start the first kiss – second, really, because this is exactly the same as the end of his last dream, from the moon in the sky to the creases in their clothes –, lets him control the pace of it, hungry and desperate. He doesn't object when Mordred clings to him – why would he? – or when Mordred's mouth moves to his neck, just as needy. He threads his own hands into Mordred's hair, holding back just as hard, if not harder._

_There is nothing soft about this, nothing gentle, like they both think the other will change their mind as soon as they're given a second to breathe and neither of them is willing to risk it. It's not long before mouths are not enough, before Merlin moves his hands from Mordred's hair, tugging Mordred's shirt up to let his fingertips play across the skin of his back, dipping down under the edge of his trousers._

"Yes_," Mordred hisses, thought and word both. "Please, Emrys." _Please_._

_His hands drift as well, plucking briefly at the scarf around Merlin's neck before moving downwards, scrabbling desperately at his belt, and Merlin knows that grinding Mordred against the wall isn't going to be enough for either of them soon. He steps backwards, pulling Mordred with him, then turns, pushing Mordred back towards his bed. He shoves harder when they get there and Mordred falls away from him, air rushing from his lungs as he hits the mattress; Merlin takes a moment to just look at him, admiring the flush of his cheeks, the darkness of his eyes, the bulge in his trousers. Mordred stares back, and Merlin wonders what he sees in him, whether he wants this anywhere near as much as Merlin does._

I do_, Mordred says, sitting up and pulling his shirt off, throwing it to the floor behind Merlin before moving to the fastenings of his trousers_. I want this, you want this, so will you just get down here and kiss me again, _please_?

_Merlin laughs, surprising himself with the delight in it. That _could be arranged_, he answers, tugging his own shirt off and scrambling up onto the bed beside Mordred._

X

Mordred had expected to see Emrys before now.

He can still feel him, obviously – Mordred would have to walk for days before he lost track of Emrys' mind, even with the barriers he has tried to put up – but he did think that Emrys would have come to avenge his friend (such melodrama is in his character, despite the fact that Mordred knows he has done no lasting damage to Gwaine's mind) as soon as he found out what Mordred has done.

He hasn't, though, which leaves Mordred considering two possibilities; either Emrys does not care as much as he claims to, or Mordred has overestimated his ability to put the facts together and reach the correct conclusion. He isn't sure which alternative pleases him less.

Or maybe, hopefully, Gwaine just hasn't found a moment to speak to Emrys alone, and Mordred was very specific in his instruction that Gwaine only tell Merlin what he 'saw'. In which case...maybe he should go back in, impress upon Gwaine how urgent it is that he speak to Emrys. Maybe there's something else in Gwaine's head that he can change, something to further Mordred's cause. Maybe...but no. _No_. Interfering once, changing almost nothing, has done no permanent damage. A repeat visit might not turn out so well, not to mention how much the need grows each time he does it, how each time it gets closer to controlling him than the other way around.

No, Mordred will sleep now, will _dream_ now, and if Emrys hasn't come to speak to him by tomorrow evening, he will seek him out himself.

X

_Merlin's dream transitions flawlessly._

_One minute he is sitting on a lake (not in, or beside, but _on_) with Arthur, cross legged, fishing without hooks and arguing about whether eggs are better scrambled or fried. The next he is half-naked, crawling up the bed to lie next to Mordred, half beside, half on top of him, legs entangled and hands roaming freely._

_Merlin runs his fingers over the dark swirls on Mordred's ribs, Druid marks for a Druid man, a sign of their freedom, of how much Arthur has changed since his father died, and, to be honest, Arthur isn't exactly who he wants to be thinking about right now._

"_Good to know," Mordred laughs, his own hands trying desperately to get into Merlin's trousers, and when that fails just pulling at Merlin's hips until he's lying fully above him._

"_Are you going to keep doing that?" Merlin asks, his voice hoarse and needy, although if he's totally honest he doesn't care too much._

"_You telegraph," Mordred gasps as Merlin moves downwards, grazing his teeth over the path his fingers followed only moments ago. "Not – god, Emrys – not during the day, you – the walls – but now, I – everything."_

"_Everything?" Merlin knows that should upset him, should at the very least concern him, but it's not as if this is actually Mordred, and even if it was he kind of thinks they've come too far to turn back now. _I suppose that means you can see this, then? _he asks, slipping his hand between them to palm Mordred through his trousers._

_Mordred yawns, although his grip tightens on Merlin's shoulder, somewhat damaging his attempt at appearing unaffected. _You can do better, Emrys_._

_Merlin smiles, never having been one to let a challenge lie, certainly not one he's going to enjoy this much. _This too, I suppose_, he says next, moving to nuzzle at Mordred's stomach, his hand carrying on its motion at the same time, eyes never moving away from Mordred's. _Whatabout this?

Mordred whimpers, seeing what Merlin intends in the moment it takes for him to will it to happen, then sighs as the rest of their clothes vanish and the contact between them becomes a whole lot more immediate. The sigh turns quickly into a strangled moan when Merlin trails his fingers back, using his free hand to guide Mordred's thighs apart, drinking in the noises he makes like they're the finest of wines.

"_Yes," Mordred says, before Merlin has the chance to ask again. "Yes, it's fine. I keep telling you, whatever I can get. Whatever I can give you, it's yours."_

Well_, Merlin thinks. He can definitely work with that._

I certainly hope so_, Mordred tells him, and that's kind of it as far as coherency goes._

X

"You summoned me, sire?" Mordred asks, when Arthur opens the door following his knock. The queen is not there, nor is Emrys, and Mordred wonders if it's normal to be this concerned about a private conversation with Arthur; it's not like he has a whole lot to compare himself with, when it comes to normalcy.

The king waves him in, directing him to a chair and sliding a goblet across the table. Wine, a beautiful colour, but Mordred doesn't drink it, hasn't in a long time. He puts so much effort into controlling his powers rather than letting them control him, and alcohol doesn't help that; the first time Mordred woke up after drinking heavily and saw the damage he'd caused was more than enough, and it isn't something he ever wants to repeat.

Arthur sits opposite him rather than at the head of the table, taking a sip from his own drink and wiping his mouth before speaking. "I told you I wished to speak to the sorcerer you told me of."

"You did," Mordred answers, it seeming a far safer answer than anything else; noncommittal is the way to go with this conversation, when it concerns both Emrys and magic. His oath binds him, and he'd rather not risk bringing Arthur's wrath down upon him if Mordred gives an answer that is not what he wants to hear. One key power in the city loathing him – or not, as the case may be, and Mordred is still finding that hard to comprehend, even with all the evidence he has supporting it – is more than enough for the moment.

"And if I was to ask you to arrange it...?" Arthur leaves the question hanging, waiting for Mordred to do something with it.

Which he can't, of course. He cannot reveal Emrys' identity, cannot agree to set up a meeting, cannot do what is asked of him when his loyalties lie with both the king and Emrys, even though he will never doubt that the two are on the same side. "I could try," Mordred says at last. "I can't promise that he'd want it, but I can ask."

"You know where he is?"

"Not at this moment," which is not, technically, a lie. "I could find him, if you give me a couple of days." Again, not technically a lie, although he would need days not to find Emrys but to convince him to speak to him, and it is perhaps not proper to place conditions upon a deal with the king, not when Mordred is breaking more than one of Camelot's laws himself and has admitted as much, but he rather thinks he has to. "If I am to do this, I need a guarantee that no harm will come to him, myself, or those he cares for, those who have kept him a secret."

It takes Arthur a long time to answer, many minutes of silent thought and at least one full goblet of wine. He nods eventually, although not without evident reluctance. "I won't kill him on sight, or those who know of him, assuming they do not possess magic themselves. Will that suffice?"

"It is more than I could have hoped for, sire," Mordred answers, because that it is; he has not secured protection for himself or Gaius, but since he has no intention of revealing his own powers (not without seeing Arthur accept Emrys', at least) and, in all honesty, cares little for the well-being of the old man (though he would spare Emrys the pain of his loss, if he could), that is hardly high on his list of concerns. "I will do what I can."

He stands, awaiting royal dismissal before bowing and making his way from the room; it is now with even more urgency that he must speak with Emrys.

X

Gwaine grins, and Merlin is a little too slow on the uptake to realise why; by the time he has noticed the open cupboard door behind him, he has already been shoved inside it, Gwaine crowding in after him.

"Alone at last," he says, and Merlin just knows he's smirking, even though it's far too dark to see it. "Not the surroundings I might have wanted, but you're mighty good at avoiding people when you want to be, aren't you, Merlin?"

"This cupboard does open from the inside, doesn't it?" Merlin asks, because it might be tricky to ensure Gwaine doesn't notice him using magic to get them out when they're in such close quarters, and he'd just like to be certain he won't have to try before he attempts to fathom the questionable depths of Gwaine's mind rather than after.

"Course. Checked that first. I'm not a complete idiot, Merlin." Gwaine leans back against the closed door, and it's only with some tiny amount of spite that Merlin wishes for someone to open it from the other side. "Now, in light of that, how about you tell me about you and Mordred before I have to tell you just how much I already know."

"Yeah, I still don't know what you're talking about, Gwaine."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I really-"

"I followed you to his room, Merlin," Gwaine interrupts, and it stuns him a little too much for Merlin to cut in and tell him just how impossible that is. "The day you fainted, I waited in a cupboard near Gaius', then followed you when you left. You went to Mordred's room, and you didn't leave anytime soon. You don't need to lie to me about this."

Merlin gapes, then gapes some more. Because, yeah, he'd thought he sensed someone following him that night, but he'd seen nothing, heard nothing. It was just a feeling, he'd decided, and dismissed it, but, quite clearly, it wasn't.

But Gwaine didn't follow him to Mordred's, because that wasn't where he went.

"The last time you tried to talk to me about this, Arthur interrupted and you shut up," Merlin says, because he has a suspicion and if he's right someone is going to _die_. "Why?"

"Didn't want to tell him," Gwaine says slowly, but Merlin can practically hear the frown he's sure must be on his face. "Couldn't tell him, maybe. Hardly important, when we're talking about you lying to me, is it?"

Merlin breathes deeply, pretends this doesn't matter, even if it fucking well does, more than Gwaine can possibly know. "I'll make you a deal, Gwaine. Get out of my way now, and I'll tell you absolutely everything tomorrow, okay?"

"Everything?" Gwaine asks, whatever put-on grump he has vanishing, replaced by irrepressible curiosity.

"Every gory detail," Merlin promises, which isn't exactly a hardship since there _aren't any_, and when he's finished with Mordred and found out how to undo whatever the hell he's done to Merlin's friend, he's going to make damn sure everyone knows that.

Gwaine pushes the door open and waves Merlin out of the cupboard; he can feel his eyes on him until he's out of sight, can imagine the gleeful expression he's wearing.

Fuck, Merlin is going to _kill_ Mordred.

X

Mordred barely has time to register his door blasting open before he is slammed back against the wall, Emrys' forearm pressing against his throat.

"What the fuck did you do to Gwaine?" Emrys hisses, face less than inch from Mordred's, the door blowing shut behind him, and Mordred knows it won't open until he wants it to, no matter what might happen inside or outside the room. Hell, if he isn't careful, this room, lit only by the furious glow of Emrys' eyes as the fire puffs into nothingness and the window shutters bang closed, is going to be the last thing he sees.

"Emrys," Mordred croaks, slipping his leg between Emrys', the best distraction that he can think up. "Just who I was hoping to see tonight. Have to say, much as I enjoyed the last time you had me pressed up against a wall, I much preferred it when we made it to the bed afterwards."

Upside of that comment? Judging by the way all the colour bleeds from Emrys' face as he releases Mordred, he's pretty sure his distraction worked.

Downside? Mordred is pretty sure he's just flung himself from the frying pan headfirst into the fire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Warnings:** Language, violence, and an overabundance of homicidal impulses. Also, I suspect my characters have little in common with who they are in the series. Sorry?  
**Bleuck:** Took somewhat longer than I intended it to, even given the weekend I knew it would not be, and there might not be another one before Christmas. Also, I have failed abysmally at replying to all you wonderful people who have reviewed chapter six. Will do my best to amend that within the next twenty-four hours, and do not think for a second that you aren't appreciated. Peach.

**Set in Stone**

**VII  
**

"Oh," Merlin says, staggering backwards then immediately wondering why, because whilst he might be able to kill Mordred from a distance it'll be easier, quicker, and a whole lot more satisfying to do it up close and personal, with his bare hands if possible. "Oh, _fuck_, what is _wrong _with you?"

"Overreacting a little, aren't we Emrys?" Mordred drawls, smirking like he actually wants Merlin to kill him, although for all his voice is calm, almost gloating, there is something a little unsteady, possibly even wary, in his eyes. "I mean, anyone would think you'd never lain with a man before, and I know for a fact that that's not true."

Merlin stares, baffled and offended and horrified, because how can Mordred possibly suggest that being with Arthur (the only person Mordred _knows for a fact_ that Merlin has been with) is even close to being the same thing as having Mordred inside his dreams, inside his _head_, and God, had Merlin had even an inkling that there was anyone other than himself inside his mind things sure as shit would have gone differently. "You have until I count to ten to give me a reason not to kill you, and trust me, I really hope you fail. _One, tw-_"

"Arthur wants to meet you."

Well_,_ Merlin certainly isn't disappointed. "_Four, five, si-_"

"Not _Merlin_-you. _Emrys_. He wishes to meet _Emrys_, and has asked me to set it up."

Merlin lowers his hands, then takes another step backwards. This doesn't change anything, not how violated he suddenly feels, how furious he is about the so much more real way Mordred has violated Gwaine, but it does, sort of. Yeah, he still wants to rip Mordred to pieces, but he's willing to listen, because this is big. This is a sign that Arthur might actually be willing to accept magic someday, and that it might actually be soon, and if he's asked Mordred to set it up, killing him in a way that is clearly magical (Merlin might be stronger than he looks, but no man could do the amount of damage he'd like to without magical assistance) may not be the best of ideas. "Start talking."

"You may want to sit," Mordred says, expressionlessly, sliding down the wall to sit cross-legged on the floor, never mind that it's stone and not exactly warm in there and Mordred isn't any better dressed than Merlin is.

"I'll stand."

Mordred looks up at him – not stares, that lends too much emotion, too much intensity, to his gaze – then shakes his head. "Your choice," he says, something approaching a smile on his lips for almost no time at all.

"Sir Gwaine and I followed you," Mordred begins, and while it's not the explanation Merlin expected it's certainly the one he wants to hear most, the one that will decide above everything else whether he is to allow Mordred to remain breathing within the walls of Camelot. "I left your room and hid in a cupboard, to see where you were going. Sir Gwaine was already there, and we waited together for you to leave.

"It was not hard to work out where you planned to go, and Sir Gwaine speculated a number of things, particularly that you were having an affair with the king, the queen, or both of them. Then you stopped outside, seemed to be settling down there, and Gwaine began speculating as to why." Mordred pauses, his gaze becoming a great deal more intense. "You can understand why I thought it necessary not to tell him anything further, but..."

"Gwaine sucks at letting things go," Merlin supplies for him, realising a second too late that that's what Mordred wanted; in doing so, Merlin has essentially agreed with him, sort of. "That doesn't give you the right to change his memories," he points out, voice infused with what he would consider to be righteous anger. "You _can't_ just go inside someone's head and make them remember things that didn't happen."

"What would you prefer me to have done?" Mordred asks, so matter-of-fact. "Should I have left him knowing what he does, allow him to ask questions that would risk him exposing the pair of us? Should I have left him to tell the king what we had seen, thus leading to questions I imagine you don't particularly wish to answer?"

"No," Merlin says, because maybe that wouldn't have been preferable, but that isn't the point. The situation should never have been allowed to arise in the first place. "No, because you shouldn't have followed me in the first place, and you shouldn't have taken him with you!"

"As far as he is concerned, I didn't."

X

_Would you please sit down? _Mordred wishes to ask, because this conversation might be a little less uncomfortable if they were on eye level with one another. He won't, just as he won't ask Emrys to hurry up and ask him about what's really bothering him, or explain Arthur's request in greater detail until he has said everything else he has to.

"I changed as little as I possibly could," Mordred explains, as patiently as he can. "I planted the memory of exactly what he had expected to see when he followed you, and I allowed him to tell you what he believes himself to have seen. If I had any intention of doing harm, I could have done. I didn't."

"That doesn't make it okay," Emrys states, and it doesn't take a genius to tell that he's having to reach for his initial anger to do with this. "That doesn't make it _right_."

"What is necessary is not always right, Emrys. You know this as well as I do." Emrys has confessed as much, back when there was something approximating friendship between them; he has confessed to doing wrongs for the greater good, for Arthur's good. Mordred knows, too, how Emrys' mind works; they are the same, but for the outrageous compassion Emrys can feel for strangers and friends alike that Mordred finds so very incomprehensible himself. He is not without feelings – that conversation with Emrys when he first arrived was far more than just words – but to feel so much for someone to whom he has no connection is not within Mordred's power.

"Yes," Emrys says, so very softly. "Yes, but-"

He shakes his head, then slumps to the ground in a single, utterly inelegant motion, sitting with his knees up, arms resting upon them, and his back to the wall opposite Mordred. In this, at least, the fight has gone out of him. "Swear to me," he says, resignation in every word, "on all that is dear to you, swear that you won't do it again."

Mordred has to look away then, cannot continue to hold Emrys' gaze as he asks something of him that he cannot give, particularly this. This, which he would love to be able to grant, this, that controls him more than he controls it, that seeps under his skin and urges him on and on and on, take take take take take, because who is going to stop him?

"It's not that simple."

"I'm making it that simple," Emrys answers, and Mordred feels a hand on his chin that isn't a hand at all, forcing his head up, and he would close his eyes but he suspects Emrys would probably have a solution to that too. "If you wish to leave this room alive, swear it."

"I can't," Mordred tells him, because what does Emrys know of need, with his power and his king and his _acceptance_? What does he know of hunger, of growing up an orphan in a community that tolerates him only because of his parents, of being cast out because of a future he doesn't even want? Does Emrys really think his fury so pure, so right, when Mordred knows just how similar they are, how little right Emrys has to judge him for this? "If I could swear it and know that I could keep my oath, I would."

The not-hand at his chin moves, not-fingers stroking down his neck, gentle and – if it isn't ascribing too human a characteristic to Emrys' magic – apologetic, enough so that Mordred isn't surprised when it turns to pressure on his windpipe. He's still saddened by it, and quite determined that Emrys is _not_ going to kill him here and now, when they are closer than they've ever been to being accepted as themselves in Camelot, but he is not surprised. Unfortunately, air isn't exactly easy to come by at the moment, so Mordred resorts to his instinctive method of communication, which is probably the wisest solution anyway; assuming he can't talk Emrys out of his rage, he can at least knock him unconscious. He reaches out, pushing himself through the walls around Emrys' mind like they're no more substantial than a bubble of soap, desperation lending him strength, not that he needs much more of it.

_Do you think, Emrys, that magic cast upon another's mind doesn't leave a trace? _he asks, the not-hand faltering just long enough for him to suck in a breath_. Do you think, hypocrite, I don't know of the spell you cast on our king years ago, making him biddable, obedient, _dependent_ on you? _He snakes as much implication into his tone as he can, then pushes past the spiking envy in his gut to add the memory he saw the first time he was in Emrys' head, just for good measure. Yes, that memory is older than the spell on King Arthur's mind, and lacks the sting of guilt, self-recrimination, that Mordred knows there would be if Emrys had ever been with the king in a less than entirely voluntary situation, but it still makes his point, allows him a second gasp of air when the memory shakes Emrys' focus. _Do you really think you're any better than I am?_

"I saved Arthur's life," Emrys snarls, but the hand he raises towards Mordred, fingers clenched into claws, is distinctly less than steady.

_I acted to save yours_. A slight exaggeration, certainly, but he doesn't have time to search for the right words, not when the world at the edge of his vision is beginning to darken, sparks of colour moving inwards towards the centre, and his chest is hurting, his head is hurting, his heart is pounding harder and harder but it doesn't matter because there's no air for it to move.

"Gwaine wouldn't harm me," Emrys states, confident uncertainty on his face, and Mordred's thoughts aren't even making sense anymore. "He's my friend, I trust him with my life."

_You can risk that_, Mordred whispers, and it's seeming likely right now that these will be his lest sentences; however much more efficient it's likely to be, he's not going to leave this world begging for his life to be spared. _I couldn't, _Emrys_._

He doesn't have the breath left to explain that Emrys is far more than a name the Druids have for him, what the idea of Emrys means to those who have grown up persecuted and afraid, nothing more than the promise of future salvation to bring them pleasant dreams at night. He can't explain that Emrys is the story every parent tells their child the first time they realise that they are different, and that they can't ever be friends with the children they meet in towns and villages, children without magic or religion or a black mark on their parents' skin that means death if it's seen. He can't explain that in the life Mordred has lived, this man before him is synonymous with hope, is the personification of a promise that things will get better, and the closest thing to a god Mordred can imagine existing.

He has chosen not to explain in the past, and now he is out of time.

The pressure at his throat increases, just for a moment, and then is gone, leaving Mordred to fall the rest of the way to the floor, his world almost completely dark. The last thing he recalls before unconsciousness claims him is Emrys' fingers on his neck, cool and more gentle than he could have expected.

X

Merlin crouches beside Mordred on the cold, stone floor and presses his fingers loosely against his neck, feeling the racing of his pulse. It's too fast, worrisomely unsteady, and, really, Merlin should just finish what he started and be done with it. Kill Mordred now, save Arthur from a threat Merlin has had warning of for years, ensure that Mordred will never be able to bring harm to the people dear to Merlin, bid farewell once again to the future where Arthur knows and accepts him for who he is.

_I am not your god_, he thinks, hopes that however deeply unconscious Mordred is, he hears it somehow. _Do not put your hopes on me; I will only let you down_.

He could say it, too, if only Mordred hadn't looked at him like that.

X

Mordred's first surprise is that he wakes up in his bed, clothed only in his trousers. The second takes a moment or two of thought, but it occurs to him as he sits carefully and rubs his throat that, actually, he didn't particularly expect to wake up at all.

The small table that lived previously at the other side of his room sits beside his bed, a pitcher of water and a small cup upon it. He drinks thirstily, wincing each time he swallows, then lies back down, only noticing the sheet of paper beside his pillow when it rustles as he rests his head upon it.

_Tell Arthur I'll meet with him_, Emrys has written. _And keep the fuck out of my dreams_.

Mordred laughs softly, then winces yet again. It is hardly promising for a repeat encounter in which Emrys knows Mordred to be a conscious individual rather than a figment of his imagination, but Mordred knew such a thing was highly improbable anyway, and he _is_ still breathing. As long as that much is true, he has no reason not to hope that someday, he may have more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Set in Stone  
**Author:** EachPeachPearPlum  
**Rating: **Something minimal  
**Warnings: **Mild manipulation? And probably some language, too.  
**Disclaimer: **Nope, I don't own it. If I did, it wouldn't have ended as it did.  
**Notes:** Sorry for the wait, and the absence of review replies. A week out of the country, followed immediately by a week of family time, both of which means not a whole lot of free time. Will try to do better, but I make no promises, mostly because I cannot keep them. Anyway, enjoy, and there should hopefully be an update soon. Until then, Peach.

**Set in Stone**

**VIII  
**

Merlin passes three days in which he sees almost nothing of Mordred: only glances in the halls and a little time when he tends to Arthur at training, nothing more. His dreams, what few he has (and it is only now that he can see there was something unusual about how often he dreamed these last few weeks), are entirely without Mordred and unutterably bizarre, which is to say, back to normal.

He's a little surprised that he misses it, and more than a little horrified.

Then, of course, he leaves Arthur and Gwen's chambers on the evening of the third day, turning the key in the lock and hiding it inside his shirt, walks the short distance to his makeshift bed, and finds Mordred sitting on it.

Suddenly, Merlin doesn't miss him at all.

"Emrys," he rasps; that is really only the accurate description of his voice and Merlin can see, now that he's close enough to look, the blue-green-purple ring around his neck.

"Shit," Merlin mutters, because one of the benefits of magic is that it isn't meant to leave a mark. "Shit, Mordred, I'm-" not sorry, or he didn't think so, at least, so why does he want to apologise? "I did that?"

Mordred smiles in a mildly patronising, 'well-duh' way, but then shrugs. "I understand why, Emrys," he answers, then pats Merlin's bedding next to him. Merlin sits, not entirely sure where this is going, but the bruises around Mordred's throat kind of prove that he can take him in a fight with very little in the way of effort. "If I was to ask you to switch to a less conventional means of communication, would you do so?"

Merlin doesn't particularly know how to answer that. He has no wish to let Mordred in his mind, but...well, wishing against it is hardly going to stop him, and it's not like Mordred is really asking as anything more than a courtesy. If he wants in, there's nothing stopping him, not really. "What if I say no?"

"It would be nothing I didn't expect," Mordred answers, though there is a hint of disappointment to the scratch of his voice. "Your reluctance is quite understandable."

Perhaps, Merlin thinks, but that hardly makes it right, and he wants to like Mordred, _does_ like Mordred, in the deep and secret part of his mind he doesn't want to admit to having but isn't exactly in a position to continue denying the existence of. And he was in Mordred's mind, too, or was in his own when Mordred filled it with his thoughts; he knows the depth of feeling, the reverence that Mordred has for Emrys, this power he thinks Merlin is supposed to be. Yes, Arthur may be in grave danger from Mordred, the future Merlin saw may yet come to pass, but Merlin is almost completely sure, today, that he himself is not. He may think differently tomorrow, but today, he can let down his walls. He can let Mordred in, and maybe make amends for the fact that Mordred's throat is still damaged three days later.

"Oh," Mordred breathes, turning to stare at Merlin with deep awe. "You don't have to," he says, still aloud, still in that hideous, harsh voice.

_I'm not letting you into my mind for shits and giggles, Mordred_, Merlin thinks, hears Mordred snort at his crassness. _Speak like this, it's easier for you. And_, he adds as an afterthought, _it's a little more private, is it not?_

_Right_, Mordred answers, and Merlin feels Mordred's knee knock against his own, too quickly for him to be sure if it's intentional or an accident, and if it's intentional what Mordred intends to convey. He doesn't have long to think on it, though, before Mordred turns his severely intense gaze on him (just as creepy as when he was a child, if not more so).

_I heard that, Emrys._

"You were meant to," Merlin says, but he softens it with a grin. "So, I take it you want to tell me something?"

Mordred takes a deep breath, the sort someone takes before saying something difficult, but which seems a bit odd when not followed by anything vocalised_. A few weeks ago, I told you what I saw, the counterpoint to your own vision. I told you the truth_.

_And I told you I wouldn't_, Merlin cuts in, abrupt and decisive. _Even if I was that powerful, even if I could do it, it's just not something I _would_ do._

"I'm not trying to start a fight," Mordred says, speaking over him, then returns to directing his thoughts when Merlin goes quiet. I _wasn't then, and I'm not now. I just wanted you to see why killing him isn't high on my list of priorities. Even if I didn't mind dying, if I thought the merits of his death outweighed the detriments of mine, being responsible for all those other deaths?_ He laughs without amusement, tilting an eyebrow at Merlin. _I may not be a saint, Emrys, but I am by no means a monster._

He falls silent, presumably to give Merlin time to mull this over, although Merlin has no idea how deeply in his mind Mordred is, or how much of what he is thinking the other man can hear, maybe even influence. The fact that Mordred doesn't speak up to deny this possibility, or proclaim his innocence, does rather imply that he can't hear, because Merlin thinks him slightly too hotheaded to stay silent when he could defend his honour, however intelligent Mordred may be. Still, Merlin would like slightly more privacy in which to think about it, even if distance makes little difference. "Was that everything?"

Mordred doesn't bite his lip, or lower his eyes, or make any other sign of hesitance, but he's hesitating anyway, holding Merlin's gaze in a slightly uncomfortable fashion for a few moments. _No_, he says, eventually, then reaches out and presses the first two fingers of his right hand to Merlin's left temple. _It's...your walls, Emrys. They're wrong, to be honest. Damaging, to be even more honest. And, well, ineffective?_

Merlin nods, processing these words at about the same speed with which Mordred said them (slowly). Yes, he knows the barriers in his mind aren't particularly effective, but... "Damaging?"

_Yes_, Mordred answers plainly. _I can...if you wish, I could show you the proper way to construct a mental barricade_.

_Will it keep you out?_ Merlin asks, curious and doubting in equal measures, because as little as he knows Mordred, he doesn't think he's likely to surrender the only real power he has over Merlin.

Mordred laughs, soft and discomfortingly musical. _If you want it to, yes_. His eyes burn into Merlin's with a fierce intensity that has more in common with ice than fire_. I don't want to be your enemy, Emrys. If I have to give you the opportunity of having nothing at all to do with me for that to happen, then I shall._

Merlin frowns, because it doesn't make sense, not to him, to leave someone alone if you want to be friends with them. If you want someone's friendship, you make overtures, offer assistance, stick around until you win them over, and okay, fine, maybe Mordred's offer to keep his distance is precisely that, an attempt to offer what Mordred thinks Merlin thinks he needs, perhaps without being anything other than empty words, but still. It isn't what he's used to. _You'll show me a way to keep my mind my own, including against someone as powerful as you? Why does it feel like there are strings I can't see here?_

_I would not have you come to harm, Emrys_, Mordred answers, covering Merlin's hand with his own_. I would have shown you as a part of our earlier deal, had things not ended in a less than amicable fashion. If you are willing, I would do this properly._

"Thank you," Merlin says, not committing to anything more, not yet, but the offer itself probably merits gratitude. _I'll let you know_.

Mordred smiles, then stares a moment longer before leaning in close enough to fill Merlin's entire field of vision and pressing his mouth to Merlin's, too fleeting to really be called a kiss, too real to be described as anything else. _Something else I would do properly, were you willing_, he says, a breathy quality to his thought-voice that shouldn't be possible (breath is hardly necessary for this form of communication, as recent events have shown).

Merlin blinks, then blinks again, and by the time he opens his eyes from the third blink, Mordred is gone from his sight, although he can still hear his boots against the stone floor.

X

Mordred blames the dreams. There is no other explanation for his complete lack of thought.

A connection once forged remains, and whilst Mordred has broken the link he made with Emrys, the one Emrys created in return is still open. It isn't a simple piece of magic, and Emrys probably doesn't even know that he carries half the responsibility for the three nights in which they shared dreams, or that Mordred has continued to dream of him even while Emrys has stopped.

Or so Mordred assumes; if Emrys has continued to dream of him, Mordred has nothing to do with it.

But regardless, it is the dreams that are to blame. Without them, Mordred would have been happily oblivious to the fact that Emrys might have anything more than a passing interest in him. Without them, he wouldn't be pressing his own interest on Emrys, when Emrys could have so much _more_ than him.

X

Merlin accepts, and if he finds it distinctly difficult to believe there was ever a chance of him not doing so, he keeps it to himself.

_Noon_, he tells Mordred four mornings later. _I'll serve Arthur and Gwen, then bring us something_.

There is a prickling in his skull that he figures is Mordred trying to reply, but since it wasn't a question he doesn't really want an answer. Still, he glances across the field at the other man in time to see Mordred give a stiff nod in response.

X

Mordred is sat cross-legged on a large cushion when Merlin enters his room, a second cushion clearly intended for Merlin waiting a few feet from him and a stack of children's wooden building blocks between them.

"Emrys," Mordred says, looking up with a smile and a block in each hand. His voice isn't as raspy as the last time they spoke, his bruises yellowed and old, almost gone, but Merlin still curses himself for the flash of guilt he feels. This would all be so much easier if he didn't _care_.

_Mordred_, he answers in his mind, sitting carefully in order not to tip the tray in his hands, soup and bread and watered wine for two. _Are we eating first, or learning?_

_Eating, if you have no_ _objections_, Mordred says, his smile turning grateful as Merlin passes him a bowl, plate and cup.

X

They eat in silence, both literal and mental, because Mordred has known hunger often enough not to turn away hot food when it is placed before him. He finishes first, too, although he suspects Emrys has been hungry a time or two, growing up as he did in the Mercian version of nowhere under the rule of a king who cares not a whit for his subjects.

Emrys continues chewing at what seems to Mordred an unnecessarily slow pace, but then Mordred wasn't expecting him to be precisely on time, so perhaps the extra time is for his benefit. He watches Emrys for a moment or two, realises that watching someone eat is a little bit peculiar (and also that the last time he was this close to Emrys their lips had just been in contact, which is a fact neither of them is addressing, and something Mordred is Not Thinking About right now), then resumes his attempt to stack the ridiculous wooden blocks into the pattern he intends to use as a demonstration. It is a childish means of teaching correct mental shielding, certainly, but Mordred was only a child when he was taught this, and, knowing his predicted future, his people thought it best that he not be entrusted with the education of young minds. He has only his own experience to draw upon, and his own experience involves building blocks.

Emrys arches an eyebrow at him as he creates a circle of bricks, then stacks it higher without overlap; structurally unsound, as every child learns quickly, but then that is the point Mordred is trying to make.

_What's this, then?_ Emrys asks, placing his crockery back on the tray then looking at Mordred and his blocks with equal parts curiosity and scepticism.

_Your_ _mind_, Mordred answers, deliberately cryptic, glancing over Emrys' head to check the lock on the door before muttering the words under his breath in order to produce a light inside the circle of blocks. _Or this is, at least, and the blocks the wall you've constructed_.

Emrys looks confused, but seems willing to go along with it, at least for the moment. _I take it this is wrong, then?_ he asks after a moment of Mordred's eyes on him. _Why?_

In response, Mordred merely stretches out an arm and flicks one of the towers of bricks inwards, using the tiniest wisp of magic to tip all the others at the same time. They fall to the ground with a soft clatter of wood on stone, and at the same time Mordred releases the light, not for it to fizzle into nothingness but to burst, exploding in a bright flash that leaves Mordred blinking to clear his vision in the comparative darkness that follows, even though he was expecting it and knew to close his eyes before the brightness hit.

"Ah," Emrys answers, a definite absence of colour to his face, teeth worrying at his bottom lip in a way that isn't exactly conducive to Mordred's rational thought processes, not when he spent much of the previous night thinking of the many things he could do with that mouth. "Yes, I see why that would be bad."

Mordred smiles, gives himself a moment to moderate the correct level of hoarseness to his voice before replying; certainly, his throat is still a little painful, but it doesn't hurt to allow Emrys to believe he has done slightly more damage than he actually has. "Quite," he says softly, just the right amount of catch to his voice, and Emrys' eyes flicker downwards, breaking contact for a matter of moments before returning. "This, on the other hand, is far better." He coughs briefly, entirely genuinely; the expression on Emrys' face is unmistakably one of remorse now, in a way that sends a happy thrill through Mordred, selfish, vicious joy at the thought that Emrys feels guilty for hurting him.

A (practised, very much so) wave of his hand has the blocks standing again, this time in a tighter circle, each layer rotated half a block from the one below in order to ensure precise overlap. Mordred brings the light back, effectively demonstrating how little of it leaks out, and Emrys leans forwards, examining it from close up. "This is what your wall is like, then?" he asks after a minute, prodding gently at the blocks.

"Yes," Mordred answers, "more or less. Most people find a single wall suffices, but my...mentor, I suppose-" Mordred could perhaps find more accurate words, but none he wishes to share "-advised multiple ones, given my tendency to talk with my mind. I would suggest you do-"

"Would you stop talking out loud!" Emrys interrupts. "It obviously hurts. You don't have to copy me, or wait for me to speak telepathically before you do."

Mordred does an excellent job of hiding his victorious smile, instead just nodding slightly. _Thank you_, he says, then continues as if Emrys hadn't just interrupted. _As I was saying, I suggest you have multiple walls as well, given how important you are to this kingdom. If you wish, I can help you construct them._

Emrys' gaze on him is intense, fierce, and this is the real test of just how far Emrys is willing to trust him. Letting Mordred inside his mind to learn communication was one thing, but entrusting him with the defences necessary to keep his mind truly safe is, Mordred knows, possibly a step too far, a little too much to ask. But this, like everything else, he can wait for, as long as Emrys wants to make him wait.

Emrys sits a long time before he breaks eye contact, returning his gaze to the blocks before him and worrying his lips to redness again. "I don't know, Mordred," he says eventually, soft and almost apologetic. "I don't know that I trust you that much."

_I understand_, Mordred answers, nothing but the truth; he might not like it, but it is nothing less than he had expected, and he comprehends Emrys' reasons so thoroughly that they may as well be his own.

Emrys stands, still visibly uncertain in a way no one with his power ought to be, not when in the presence of someone like Mordred, insignificant but for the prophecies made about him. "If," he says, after hovering in place for a moment, "if, when the walls are in place, you could test them, though?"

Mordred nods, standing himself and beginning to clear away the cushions and blocks, assuming this is the end of the conversation. It isn't until he has packed the blocks nearly into the box in which he purchased them and placed them to one side to give to the son of the maid who cleans his room that he glances up and sees Emrys still hovering, watching him with what can only be confusion on his face.

_Was there something else?_

Emrys shakes his head, his hand on the door handle, says, "you stopped the dreams," then frowns as of he can't work out how the words are coming from his mouth.

_You did ask me to_, Mordred tells him, once again trying to hide his smile.

"Yes, but...you kissed me."

_I did_, and this is far too much fun.

Emrys stares like he's waiting for Mordred to continue, seeming to take a minute to work out that he doesn't plan to. "Why?"

_I wanted to._

"That isn't an answer."

Emrys is still hovering, looking confused and mildly frustrated, his lower lip still reddened from all the time spent biting it, and really Mordred only has one option.

He steps forwards, then again, backing Emrys up against the door, and kisses him again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Rating: **T, I think.  
**Warnings:** language, as ever. Little else, I think.  
**Notes:** Please forgive me my many sins, including but not limited to how very long this has taken to write, and how extraordinarily rubbish I am at showing how much I appreciate you all. As ever, I will try to do better. As ever, I will probably fail. Sorry? Peach.

**Set in Stone**

**IX  
**

Merlin has a long, long moment where the only thought that passes through his (usually perfectly competent, whatever Arthur might say) mind _is what the fuck?_, then it clicks, as Mordred starts to hesitate, to draw back, that responding might actually be a good idea.

Mordred has already stepped away by the time Merlin opens his mouth, their bodies distanced and their lips the only point of contact between them. It takes only a moment of Merlin tugging at his shoulders for Mordred to lunge forwards again, trapping Merlin between his body and the door, and this, Merlin could get used to.

Although, really, it's not exactly the situation he might have asked for, what with the door handle digging into his back and the knowledge that he will have to get back to work pretty damn soon pressing just as hard on his mind. Then again, the former is easily rectified by sidling just a little to the left, the latter by bringing Mordred with him, tangling the fingers of his right hand in Mordred's curls, and kissing him with as much intensity as he can manage.

It is a long way from being a good idea, Merlin knows, for all that he likes Mordred, for all that he _wants_ this. In just the last fortnight, Mordred has altered Gwaine's memory, pushed his way into Merlin's dreams in order to sleep with him, and only came clean about the fact that his dreams were something more than that when he needed to distract Merlin from ripping him to pieces for what he did to Gwaine. God alone knows what he's done before then, and Merlin is terrified he knows what Mordred is going to do in the future, but even that isn't enough to stop him.

And anyway, what if trusting Mordred is the step Merlin needs to take in order to change the future? What if this is what makes the difference between Arthur living to a ripe old age and Arthur dying on a battlefield in the very near future? What if Merlin is fairly sure he can be circumspect about it, not let whatever feelings may arise interfere with his destiny?

What if he just really, really wants this, and to hell with overthinking the consequences of it?

Mordred groans then, as if on cue, and Merlin isn't entirely sure how he manages to press closer but he does. Bad idea, Merlin tells himself, pushing at Mordred's shoulders with the same fervour with which he pulled at them only minutes ago, bad idea, as he follows Mordred, bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, spinning them around and backing Mordred up again, and there is no possible twist of the imagination in which this isn't one of the stupidest things he's ever done.

The air huffs out of Mordred's lungs as his back hits the wall, but his arms close around Merlin's back without a word of protest. Or Merlin doesn't think so, at least; there is a strangled moan that Merlin thinks might be _Emrys_, but it's a little hard to tell what with the complete absence of space between them and the fact that Merlin's tongue is currently performing an intense investigation of Mordred's teeth.

Mordred's fingers scrabble at the bottom hem of Merlin's shirt, pushing it up until Merlin's belt gets in the way, and things are moving just a little too fast, even if they technically have already slept together. He should stop this now, if not because it's the least sensible thing he's ever done then because he has work to get back to, and because he and Mordred should have a proper conversation about this rather than just tumble into bed together.

Merlin slips Mordred's hands from under his shirt and draws back, resting his forehead against Mordred's, trying desperately to regain control of both the situation and his breathing. It isn't happening, though, not with the way Mordred wriggles against him, struggling to release his wrists from Merlin's grasp and damn near succeeding. "Emrys," he gasps, wriggling again. "Emrys, let me go." In a complete anathema to his words, Mordred presses forwards again, simultaneously trying to pull free and get closer, crashing their lips together again.

Merlin lets go of Mordred's wrists, swapping the grip of his hands for that of his magic and trying a second time to stop this, them, before it is too late and he forgets how to stop. He pulls back again, which is a mistake too, because he can see Mordred's face, in the shadows of his own, and Mordred's expression is one of wonder; this isn't just the first time Merlin has been able to freely use his magic a situation like this. It's the first time Mordred has, too.

"Stop," Merlin says, although he's not exactly doing a good job of it himself. "We should...stop, we should...I have to..." _Arthur_ _will be looking for me_ is supposed to be the next sentence from his mouth, but Mordred apparently picks that moment to bring his own gift into play; the feel of his magic against Merlin's skin is like nothing he's ever known, and the only thing that is coherent in Merlin's strangled groan is Arthur's name.

Which, you know, isn't quite the impression Merlin wants to give.

Mordred freezes, the touch of his magic turning cool, like slime rather than silk, and Merlin kind of thinks that he's blown it and that is that, the end, over and done with before he even has a chance to do anything he'll regret. But it isn't, not at all, because Mordred's stillness lasts no more than a few seconds before he grinds forwards, his wrists still pinned to the door even as the rest of his body pushes desperately into Merlin's.

"Please," he gasps, pressing his mouth against Merlin's jaw, his cheek, clumsy kisses to Merlin's less than responsive mouth, and Merlin doesn't understand _why_. Why would Mordred do this, keep pressing when Merlin is consistently less than kind to him, keep going when all the evidence suggests that Merlin doesn't want _him_?

Then, then, he remembers. _I'll take what I can get_, Mordred told him, more than once over those nights when Merlin didn't even know that Mordred was Mordred. _I'll take what I can get_, again and again, and Merlin is struck by how very sad it is, how much Mordred is willing to give him without any reason to believe Merlin is giving him anything in return.

X

"That wasn't what I meant," Emrys says, sounding more shocked than he has any reason to, shocked and saddened. "Mordred, I promise, I wasn't thinking of anyone other than you."

"I don't care," Mordred mumbles, still trying to free his hands, magic skittering across Emrys' skin, clinging and desperate. _Don't care_, he repeats in his mind, over and over, loud enough for Emrys to hear, _don't care don't care don't care_, and maybe if he thinks it enough it'll be completely true rather than just mostly.

"I do," Emrys answers, wrenching away, not just a few steps but clear across the room, and Mordred is still trapped against the fucking door, chanting in his head for Emrys to let him _go_. "Mordred, please."

"I believe that's my line, Emrys," Mordred drawls, as best he can, and he _can_ do this. He can convince Emrys and himself that he can go this far and stop, and there will be more opportunities, he will _make_ there be more opportunities, and this. Does. Not. Hurt.

The pressure holding Mordred in place vanishes so quickly that he stumbles forwards, righting himself before he can fall entirely, and when he looks up the expression on Emrys' face is something close to pity, which, yes, absolutely definitely stings a little. "Stop, Emrys. Just stop." He opens the door as he speaks, using the brief moment his back is turned to paste composure to his face and frame, then waves Emrys to the door. "Leave."

Emrys stares, long and hard, then makes his way towards Mordred and the door. "I'll go for now. As I said, or _tried _to, Arthur will be looking for me." He darts in, quicker than Mordred could have anticipated, and brushes his lips once, gently, over Mordred's cheek. "I'll be back later, though. We need to talk about this."

Emrys shuts the door behind him when he goes, leaving Mordred alone, brittle attempts at equanimity crumbling into less than dust.

X

"Merlin!" Arthur shouts, and it's only then that Merlin realises he's probably been doing so for some time.

"Sorry, what?" Merlin asks, lifting his head from his dusting and wrenching his mind from his thoughts, none of which are productive, all of which revolve around what he's going to say to Mordred later and whether it might just be better to say nothing at all. Whether it might be better to leave well alone, not go back to see Mordred, and just forget about how Merlin can't seem to shake the idea of being with him, can't seem to stop _wanting_ to be with him.

Arthur's hand closes around his wrist, not squeezing hard enough to do damage but pressing in such a way that Merlin's fingers lose their grip on his dusting rag. "What was that for?" Merlin demands, yanking his arm back.

"Do you really think I can't tell when you're not listening, Merlin?" Arthur answers, shaking his head, equal parts exasperation and a fondness he tries to hide. "Never mind all the faces you're pulling, I don't think this shelf has ever been so clean in all the years you've worked for me."

"You're not funny."

"Quite the contrary, Merlin. I'm the king, I'm hilarious."

"To look at, maybe," Merlin mutters, quietly enough that he thinks Arthur probably won't bother to argue, particularly seeing as he seems to be getting at something.

Sure enough, Arthur grips his shoulder and steers him towards the table. "Sit," he says, pushing Merlin down into the chair that belongs to Gwen when they eat there. "Now, what are you thinking so hard about?"

"Whether or not I'm doing the right thing," Merlin answers, and for all he worries about over-thinking half of everything he does, he hasn't really thought before saying that at all. "Erm, I mean...it's not important." At the very least, it's not something he can explain easily, certainly not to Arthur.

"Clearly, it is," Arthur says gruffly. "Spill."

Right, Merlin thinks, because it's just that easy. Spill the beans, at least about what is immediately concerning Merlin, without mention of magic, prophecy, or Mordred's name. Simple.

Still, he's already started, and it's not like Merlin hasn't had plenty of experience of blending necessary truths with even more necessary lies. Besides, Arthur might actually be able to help; stranger things have happened, even if Merlin is having a hard time thinking of any right now.

"Suppose that...okay, there's this person that you're sort of..._fond_ of, but you don't trust them. You can't, because they're going to do something bad, but..." Merlin pauses, shakes his head, cursing both his weakness - the reason that there is a 'but' to this sentence - and the fact that he's discussing this with _Arthur_, of all people. "But you can't stop them, either."

"Stop them?" Arthur repeats. Merlin shrugs, because Arthur knows as well as he does what 'stop' actually means. "Fine," Arthur says after a moment, "fine, I'll bite. How bad is bad?"

"Very. Just about the worst thing you can imagine, really." He pauses again, then sighs; he's started, so he might as well finish, and Arthur's hardly likely to work this out. "They...just, okay, this sounds weird, I know, but the whole reason you were _born_ is to stop him, this person, from doing what it is you think they're going to do."

Arthur frowns, seeming to be giving this actual thought, which isn't exactly the response Merlin was expecting. "Right. And why do I think he - sorry, _they -_ are going to do something that awful?"

_Because I've Seen it_, Merlin thinks, but it's not exactly something he can come out and say. "Someone else has warned you," he says instead, because a half truth is better than no truth at all.

"And I believe them?"

"It's not just once," Merlin says, then has to correct himself pretty sharpish. "I mean, more than one person has told you, and you have no reason not to believe them, not really, even if you don't want to believe it. And the person who's going to do the bad thing knows, too. They know, and they know that you have to hate them for it, but they want to be your friend anyway."

"_Friend_," Arthur scoffs quietly, disbelievingly, but then that's kind of the point of a scoff, really. "You don't half talk a load of bollocks, Merlin."

"I do _no_-"

"You do and you know it," Arthur cuts in, exasperation written all over him as he scrapes his chair back from the table and stands up. "You like this person, they like you back, so you can either worry endlessly and unhappily about some nasty thing you think they might do in the future or you can both be happy with what you have now. Where's the problem?"

"I don't just think it," Merlin snaps. "I know it, and I can't just forget about it. It's too _big_ for that."

Arthur laughs at him; terse, irritated. Not cruel, Arthur rarely laughs at him in a way that is _meant_ to hurt, but very definitely irked, and clearly tired of this conversation that he started. "Really, Merlin, I do wish you'd grow up. You can't condemn a man for a crime he hasn't committed, and there is no way you or anyone else can know for a fact that he's going to do whatever you think he's going to do. Stop worrying and live a little." He smiles a little more softly than he laughed, then walks around the table to shove gently at Merlin's shoulder. "When you've finished cleaning, at least."

_Right_, Merlin thinks. That's the end of this conversation, then.

X

By evening, Mordred has decisively concluded that Emrys is not actually going to come to him for the discussion he promised him. This conclusion perhaps explains why the knock at his door, coming a little more than an hour after darkness has fallen, comes as such a surprise.

Of course, his shock is not quite enough for him to believe it might be Emrys here to speak to him, so Mordred is not particularly surprised to open the door and see Sir Elyan standing there. Mordred bobs hid head, not quite a bow, respectful but not obsequious, and smiles. "Good evening, Sir Elyan."

"Evening, Mordred," Elyan answers, smiling back. "And you can drop the title, you know none of us insist on that."

"Of course," Mordred tells him, but he knows he won't. The earliest and clearest of the few memories he has of his mother is her sitting him in a corner for not saying please when he asked for something. _Manners don't cost anything, Mordred_, she'd said, and looked at him with such disappointment that Mordred doesn't think he's forgotten since. "May I help you with something?"

"You may," Elyan says, his smile wry, amused, probably at Mordred's expense. "The king wishes to dine with the court tonight. You're expected in the hall shortly."

X

Having been the last to arrive (he's still not quite competent at getting in and out of his armour, but is just a little too proud to ask for assistance when everyone else seems to manage just fine), Mordred finds himself wedged on the end of a bench next to Gwaine. It's usually the last seat to be filled, not only because it's such a small space but because Gwaine has occasionally been known to steal ('borrow', he claims) food and drink from those around him.

Mordred, however, finds it uncomfortable for reasons beyond the lack of space and the way he has to serve himself twice as much food as he actually plans to eat; Gwaine has recently taken to grinning smugly at Mordred each time he sees him, and now that they're sitting next to each other he seems to see it as an opportunity to elbow Mordred each time Emrys passes into his direct line of sight.

"Would you stop that?" Mordred mutters under his breath after the third time, when Emrys darts along behind those sitting at the long table opposite them on his way to offer Arthur and Guinevere more wine.

"Sorry," Gwaine answers, sounding about as insincere as it's possible to be, staring quite intently as Emrys leans into the gap between the king and queen, wearing the brightest grin known to man. Arthur says something, voice too quiet for anyone other than his sorcerer and his wife to hear, but Queen Guinevere laughs richly whilst Emrys wrinkles his nose in a displeased way that Mordred does not find at all endearing. "Looking at them," Gwaine murmurs, still not looking at Mordred but leaning into him to be sure his words won't travel too far, "anyone would think you had something to worry about."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mordred answers, his voice just as low. He does, of course, because he enhanced the suggestion in Gwaine's mind, even if he didn't plant it there himself, but since there is not actually anything between he and Emrys, not truly, Mordred knows that he has nothing to be jealous of where his king is concerned.

Or he knows it objectively, at least, even if accepting it is a little harder.

"Sure you don't." Gwaine reaches for his own mug, finds it dry, and Mordred is only just quick enough to rescue his own before it meets a similar fate. Gwaine pouts as no grown man has any right to, then grins, reaching across a distracted Elyan at his right for his drink instead. "But still," he continues, "you don't. Have anything to worry about, I mean."

"_Do_ stop talking, Sir Gwaine," Mordred snaps, then glares at the people who turn to look at them. Certainly, that was a little louder than may be wise, but it's quite clear that they aren't talking with the intention of anyone overhearing. Still, appearances matter, as Mordred well knows, so he forces a clearly fake smile onto his face. "My apologies."

"No need," Gwaine says, with a wave of his hand that would be gracious, were it not for the fact that he somehow ends up holding Mordred's chicken leg. "You're quite forgiven. Love makes the best of us defensive." He pauses, fixes Mordred with a disturbingly precise gaze, then laughs. "Well, not me, obviously, it's not at all worth the effort, but most people, and..."

_Love?_ Mordred thinks, shutting Gwaine's voice out, a look of polite interest on his face. He never said anything about love, never even suggested it, and Gwaine has no right to comment upon it.

Mordred admires Emrys, certainly, both because of what he is, the legends he has grown up hearing of the greatest sorcerer to walk this earth, and because of who he is, unappreciated servant to a king he adores beyond measure. He likes him, too, as a man, and would be happy to be his friend. His wish to be Emrys' lover, even just once, is less than pure, certainly, initially born of a desire to ensnare someone so truly powerful and truly good, to have Emrys look upon him as someone of worth.

That, and he rather imagines the sex would be fantastic, with so much magic at Emrys' disposal.

Still, love is such a long way off, if it's even possible at all for someone like Mordred to love, that it hardly bears thinking of.

"Really, Mordred," Gwaine mutters, his elbow adding to the bruises on Mordred's ribs. "You can stop looking so worried. Merlin likes you."

The certainty in his voice is such that Mordred feels his eyes snap back to him and cannot really help but ask, "how? How are you so sure?"

"He denied it, didn't he?" Gwaine says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Denied it and denied it and denied it, but as soon as I suggested someone else got a look in, he jumped down my throat. As good as told me to back the fuck off, and you have to know as well as I do that possessiveness like that isn't in Merlin's nature."

"Hmph," Mordred mutters, because it's the only real response he can give. Whatever Emrys' reasons might have been, possessiveness surely couldn't have been part of them.

Still, it's certainly a pleasant thought, even if it's one that can't possibly lead to anything good. Best that he forget about it, ignore Gwaine as much as is humanly possible, and finish his dinner.

"Oi!" Mordred snaps, looking down at his plate to resume eating. "You could have left me something, you git."

On Gwaine's other side, Elyan laughs.

X

"I do believe your villain is escaping, Merlin," Arthur mutters as Merlin leans down to top up his wine yet again. He nods towards the door, and Merlin glances up in time to see Mordred slipping out, then hears the raucous laughter coming from the end of the table he's just left.

"His what?" Gwen asks, just as quietly; it feels a little bit like she's taking the words from Merlin's mouth. "I could have sworn you just said 'villain'."

"He did," Merlin answers, then lies blatantly, because he had left his conversation with Arthur under the (somewhat optimistic) impression that Arthur had no idea just who he was talking about and has no desire to be disillusioned. "Not that I know why."

Arthur doesn't laugh, but Merlin knows that he wants to. "You know _exactly_ why, _Mer_lin," he says, then leans in to Guinevere, and Merlin has absolutely no doubt that the next words from his mouth will mean nothing good. "Merlin has _found_ someone," Arthur announces to Gwen, softly but with undeniable relish.

Gwen looks started for a second, then beams with visible and somewhat terrifying delight. "Oh, really? Merlin, that's wonderful."

"Um," Merlin manages. "Gwen, I-"

"Oh, if only it was," Arthur interrupts, making a farce of sounding tragic. "He's quite convinced his special someone is planning something terrible."

Gwen nods, her brow wrinkling into a frown, then turns in her seat to give Merlin her full attention. "Would you like me to pretend I haven't worked out who he's talking about, or can I be blunt, Merlin?"

"You might as well," Merlin tells her, although gods know he doesn't want to have this conversation or any like it. "And it's not like you need the permission, is it, _my lady_?"

Gwen's frown remains, but it lightens a little; she's far better at hiding her amusement at times when laughter might be seen as inappropriate than she was a few years ago, but Merlin knows. "In that case, Merlin, I have to ask why you're sleeping where you are instead of in Mordred's bed."

"Guinevere!" Arthur gasps, sounding almost as scandalised as Merlin would feel, had he not been expecting her to say just that.

Even so, Merlin has had quite enough of this for the night. "If you're being blunt, Gwen, then so shall I. It's none of your business, queen or not. Now, if that's all, you can fend for yourselves tonight, can't you?"

Merlin has somewhere else to be, after all, and he keeps his promises, regardless of whether or not he wants to.

And if he does want to, that's his concern and maybe Mordred's, depending on what he thinks of it all, but it certainly isn't anyone else's.

X

If his first visitor of the evening had been unexpected, Mordred is positively astonished by the second.

"Emrys," he murmurs, not entirely sure he wants to let him in. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I did say I'd be here," Emrys answers, then sort of smiles. "I suppose you can be forgiven for not believing me, though. Can I come in?"

Given that he's already pushing his way through the door, Mordred figures the question is probably meant to be rhetorical. "By all means," he mutters, shutting the door and pushing the bolt home, because, if the last few times he's had a conversation with Emrys in his bedroom set any sort of precedent, he doesn't want company; neither intimacy nor attempted murder by magic are particularly things he wants an audience for. _Make yourself at home_.

"I'm not staying long," Emrys says.

_Aren't_ _you?_ Mordred asks, trying not to sound in any way affected by this, even if the odds are tilting closer to his death than to anything remotely pleasant, and he certainly doesn't want to sound upset. He isn't, and it's not like he was expecting anything else, anyway, no matter what Gwaine said about how much Emrys likes him. _Best get on with it, then. I'm tired_.

Emrys looks down, not quite hurt but close to it, and Mordred possibly feels repentant for a moment, until he thinks of the bruises around his neck (he may have milked them for all he's worth, but it doesn't mean they didn't hurt, or that he didn't actually believe he was about to die at the time) and the distance Emrys keeps putting between them whenever they seem to be getting close, and it's only fair that he upset Emrys a little in return.

"Right," he says, meeting Mordred's eyes and producing a bag from somewhere. "I could tell you that it's common practice to bring food for whoever sits next to Gwaine," he continues, opening the bag and pulling out a veritable picnic, "but you'd know I was lying, so I don't really see the point. Apple?"

Mordred takes it wordlessly, not entirely sure where this is going, and not quite certain that it isn't going to be poisoned. _So you aren't here just to bring me food, then?_

Emrys takes a large, crunching bite from his own apple, then steps into what Mordred would usually consider to be his space. "Not just, no."

He stops there, though, as if that sentence was all he planned on saying, even though it cannot be; had it been, he would just have said he was and left, and Mordred doesn't really have the patience for this now. He's tired, hungry, and so bloody tired of Emrys treating him like this, like he's a game he can play until he gets bored then just put away in a box and forget about him. _Right_, he thinks at him, not bothering to hide his irritation. _Well, if you aren't going to share, I'll say goodnight, then._

"I'm trying," Emrys answers, sounding no less irked than Mordred feels. "This isn't exactly normal for me, you know. I don't do this on a daily basis."

"Do what?! Stand and stare at people?" Mordred makes a physical effort to lower his voice for that second question, then gives up on actual speech yet again. _I'd say you have plenty of experience at it, actually, given how often I've caught you staring at me._

"I'm trying to tell you that I like you!" Emrys snaps, and Mordred can feel the words as well as hear them. "I really don't know why," he continues with somewhat less volume, and Mordred attempts to make sense of what seems to be an awful lot like a confession. "It goes against everything I am and everything I stand for and I don't trust you, don't know that I'll ever really trust you, but...I don't know, I just do, and I thought..." Emrys swallows, then nods his head, most likely at himself, and takes Mordred's hand. "I thought we could try it. Not as Emrys and the person who should be his enemy but as us, Mordred and- and just Merlin."

He pauses a second time, and Mordred thinks that it's his turn to come up with some sort of response (and whilst an eager and enthusiastic 'yes' is on the tip of his tongue, he'd like to sound a little less _young_ than that), but it isn't, apparently. Emrys is ploughing ahead, no signs of actually being done yet, despite the fact that Mordred has always thought it customary to allow the person you're propositioning (if that is indeed what this is) to answer at some point.

"And I don't want you to say yes because of who I am, Mordred," he garbles. "I saw what you think of Emrys, how much he means to you, and that isn't the sort of person you can just say no to, even if you want to. I don't know that I can be him at all, and half the time I think you've all got the wrong person, but I do know this. I can't be Emrys and be with you. If you're saying yes, it needs to be _me_ you're saying yes to."

He stops again while Mordred is still attempting to make sense of this. It certainly seems to be a proposition, but he isn't entirely sure how it's supposed to work; Merlin is Emrys, and Emrys is Merlin, and Mordred has no idea how he's supposed to disentangle the two in his mind. He doesn't really see how it matters, anyway, because it's not like Emrys can really separate the two; however hard he tries to be 'just Merlin', his magic isn't going to go away. He will always be the most powerful man Mordred will ever meet, whatever name he chooses to go by, just as he will always use his magic to aid Arthur as much as he can.

"You aren't answering," Emrys says after a long silence, once again gnawing on his lip, and he looks so unutterably nervous, like he's forgotten the fact that he's the greatest sorcerer to ever live and Mordred has been the one instigating almost everything that has happened between them so far. Does he really think he's likely to say no?

_I wasn't entirely sure you were finished_, Mordred tells him, because he has just a little too much pride to actually say that.

"Yeah, well, I am, so...look, you don't have to answer yet, but..."

_Really, Emrys_, Mordred drawls as best he can. _Are you ever going to shut up?_

"Is that a no, then?" Emrys asks, effectively answering Mordred's question. "I understand," he continues, definitely looking hurt by it. "I do, I mean, I know Merlin isn't worth much, so it makes sense. Something of a long shot, anyway, wasn't it?" He laughs, clearly trying and failing to put a suggestion of amusement in it, then opens his mouth to carry on, retreating towards the door. "I'll see you around, Mordred. Enjoy your dinner."

It isn't a big piece of magic to stop him from unbolting the door, practically nothing when compared to everything Emrys can do, but Mordred still feels a sense of achievement when Emrys turns back to face him, still pulling at the bolt. "What now?"

_Be quiet_, Mordred reiterates, _please. It's far easier for me to say yes when you aren't prattling on_.

"Oh," Emrys murmurs, "oh. Well, I suppose I'll not be going, then."


	10. Chapter 10

**Rating: **T, possibly bordering on M.  
**Warnings: **Not sure why I keep bothering to warn you all about swearing, but there you go.  
**Notes: **Not quite so long this time, but I still haven't managed to reply to everyone yet. Soon, I promise. Hope you enjoy this one. A little shaky in places, I think, but I can't fix it. Until next time, Peach.

**Set in Stone**

**X**

As enjoyable as Mordred finds kissing, he'd really quite like it if things went further some day. Preferably, sometime soon.

The first night, he doesn't particularly think anything of it. Emrys – Merlin, as Mordred is going to try to call him, even if he doesn't see how it makes any difference – places the bag of food on the floor before approaching Mordred again, a tentative smile on his face. He reaches out just as tentatively, and Mordred forces himself to wait until he gets to him, until Emrys places a hand upon his cheek and leans in just as slowly. It is Emrys' choice, everything that happens between them; Mordred wishes it, certainly, wishes for little more, but he would have Merlin know that all that is about to occur is of his own choosing.

Merlin kisses him softly, almost innocently, nothing like the fire there was between them earlier in the day. It is over quickly, too, and Mordred is left tasting the sticky sweetness of the apple Emrys has just crunched his way through on his lips as Emrys steps back, picking up their food again and searching around for somewhere to sit. Mordred digs out the cushions that were on the floor at lunchtime from under his bed, flopping down on one of them and waiting for Merlin to join him.

"Do you have anything to drink in there?" Mordred asks; given that Emrys has magic and the fullness of the bag he has, it doesn't seem all that impossible.

"'Fraid not," Merlin answers, then proceeds to unpack Mordred's second supper, and most likely his own first, although Mordred has noticed him pinching from serving platters at meals. "Dig in, though," he adds, then follows his own advice.

Mordred figures he might as well do the same, trying to keep his confusion personal, hidden; he doesn't want Merlin to know how much this all isn't what he was expecting. He didn't genuinely think Merlin would come back to see him this evening, and then when he did he was rather anticipating something a little more...exciting than a shared dinner.

Emrys chatters as he eats – fortunately not actually at the same time – but his words seem to be of little consequence; an anecdote about helping Gaius with treating patients, something about Queen Guinevere's new maidservant (deeply unwanted on all accounts, as far as Mordred can tell, but then the last one was betraying Guinevere's confidences to Morgana so the almost universal dislike perhaps isn't unwarranted), the conversation he had with the king and queen over their meal. Mordred does his best to listen without thinking too hard about _why_ he's listening, why they're just sitting and eating and talking, because, honestly, when Merlin came back to his room, Mordred had rather been thinking that they would go to bed and then afterwards Merlin would go.

Emrys leans over then, sliding his thumbs over Mordred's forehead. "What's the frown about?" He asks, then crowds in further and bumps his lips to Mordred's. "Is it whatever Gwaine said?"

Given that Mordred doesn't particularly want to share that, he decides that kissing him again is a far better idea.

X

They make it to his bed eventually, but it's nothing like in their dreams.

They aren't unclothed – shoeless, yes, and Merlin's jacket and scarf have long been discarded, but everything else is still in place – and Emrys doesn't push him down onto the mattress and crawl on top of him. They don't kiss like their lives depend on it, cling like letting go will destroy them, devour each other like starving men.

Which isn't to say they don't kiss, because they do. They kiss slowly and sweetly, Merlin's hands tracing the lines of Mordred's face, not dipping below his clothes. They kiss slowly, and each time Mordred tries to liven things up a bit, go a little further, Emrys stops him with gentle words, holding his hands in his own, fingers interlocking. They kiss until Mordred's lips are tingling, until he's sure he'll burst from all that he feels and the sensation of Merlin's mind so close to him, fierce and bright and unguarded. They kiss, lying next to each other on Mordred's bed, and it is pleasant, certainly, but Mordred was expecting something a little _more_.

They kiss, and when Emrys seems to grow bored of that, he pulls back. "I'm tired," he says softly, resting his head on Mordred's pillows. "Am I staying here tonight?"

Since Mordred is momentarily too baffled to do anything but agree, that is what he does. He lies down himself, pulling the blankets up over them, finding something comforting in the way Emrys' arms close around him, their legs twining together.

X

That is the first night, and things are new enough that Mordred lets it pass unquestioned.

The second night follows a difficult day, hours of training where the whole world seems to be against Mordred. The king, the knights, even Mordred's horse...well, it's just his imagination, at least that last part, but Arthur is definitely being more aggressive than usual when Mordred finds himself sparring with him.

It's not something Mordred would have complained about, normally. The king never goes easy on any of them, and they all understand why. They are at war, people die in wars, and no one wants the death to be them. No one is willing to relax, and no one is going to complain, when Arthur's training might be all that keeps them alive.

So Mordred isn't going to say anything, not when he might be reading something more into Arthur's violence than is actually there. Even so, the day has been challenging enough that he is almost relieved when Merlin wants nothing more from him than to sleep.

Well, _nothing_ is perhaps an exaggeration, but everything else between them comes to an abrupt halt when, finally having succeeded in getting them both shirtless, Mordred responds to one of Merlin's particularly loud gasps with a murmured, "Emrys."

Merlin draws away from him immediately, pulling back far enough that he can lower a hand to the floor to scramble for his shirt. "I told you not to call me that," he says, redressing and throwing Mordred's own shirt at him.

Mordred stands up, dropping his shirt to the floor. "Why not, _Emrys_?" he asks. "It's your name, isn't it?"

The expression on Emrys' face can best be described as a sneer. It doesn't do it justice, not by a long way; it's not unfriendly enough to be that, but then again it's not nice enough to be called anything else. "It _isn't_," he says, all angry sorrow. "It's just..._not_."

"Why. Not?" Mordred repeats, because he's just so tired of this game, Merlin pulling him close only to push him away again. He's tired and angry and frustrated he doesn't see what the difference is. Whatever name he chooses to call him, Merlin will still be who he is, and there is no reason for Merlin not to just grow up and deal with it.

"Because I said not," says Merlin, just as angry, just as sad.

"That's not a reason. I'm not a child, however much the lot of you want to treat me like it, and 'because I said so' wouldn't have counted as a reason the first time we met."

Merlin tilts his head to one side, his rage softening, but the pity that takes its place isn't any better. He doesn't carry on the argument, though, or not in an overt way. "Do they have a name for you? The Druids, I mean."

"They call me Mordred," he answers, not entirely without truth but not quite the most honest answer he could have given. "I was born one of them. Why should they have another name for me?"

"Then I wouldn't expect you to understand," Merlin says. "I thought you might, given the future we keep seeing, but...well, if the whole world doesn't spend most of their time trying to remind you who they want you to be, why would you know how it feels?"

For a moment, Mordred can only look at him, the half-lie he so recently told coming back to haunt him. He knows exactly how it feels, has fought the names, the insults and the mistrust for so many years, and finally, finally thought he was getting somewhere here. He thought he could be accepted in Camelot, just another knight. The Druid Knight, maybe, but not the man who will ruin his people's hopes for equality and freedom from persecution, the man who will kill the king.

Yes, Mordred understands how it feels.

"Sorry, Merlin," he offers, pulling on his shirt as a concession to the fact that once again, sleeping with Merlin isn't going to be anything more than sleep. "I'll try," he says, walking around the bed to take Merlin's hand. "I'll try."

X

On the third day, Arthur seems to have decided battering Mordred is not enough. This isn't to say he has stopped his violence, but when training is over, when Mordred finally lays down his sword and prepares himself to limp back to his room, the king calls him over.

He doesn't say anything for a long moment, standing and staring at Mordred without emotion. The knights trickle from the field, comparing bruises and victories, but Mordred can feel Merlin standing behind him, not close, but very definitely still present. He's not quite sure which of them he's waiting for, or whether it's just that he still doesn't trust Mordred to be alone with Arthur, but it's comforting anyway; Merlin probably won't allow harm to come to Mordred, anymore than he's willing to let harm come to Arthur.

Arthur smiles at him, when Mordred is the only person left within hearing range. He smiles, rests a hand on Mordred's shoulder. "I can take you apart with one blow," he says. "I hope training today has taught you that."

Mordred fights the urge to laugh, because that isn't usually the best response to a threat. It isn't that he doubts it, not at all, because although he's hardly defenceless himself he's not going to use his gifts against Arthur unless he has a very good reason, but the story of Merlin's first argument with Arthur has passed down through the ranks of Arthur's men over the years, met with varying levels of disbelief and amusement. Mordred thinks he's probably the only one who knows the truth to Merlin's response; Gwaine never has managed to work out why Mordred found it quite so funny when he first told him of this.

"I understand," Mordred says instead. "Merlin is perfectly safe with me." An understatement, he knows, because Emrys could quite easily rip him to pieces, could snuff Mordred's life out with so much efficiency that he may as well have never breathed at all, but until Arthur knows just who Merlin is, it's best that he not say anything more.

"Merlin?" Arthur asks. "What does Merlin have to do with anything?" He lets go of Mordred's shoulder, pats his cheek, and ambles off, shouting for Merlin to follow him.

X

That night is the first time Mordred makes a serious attempt to take things further; if he is going to be threatened by the king, he might as well get as much as he can, might as well get what Arthur is threatening him for having.

Mordred tries not be hurt when Merlin turns him down.

He isn't even mollified when Merlin stays with him anyway, pressing a final kiss to Mordred's neck. "Goodnight, Mordred," he murmurs. "Pleasant dreams."

Mordred smiles inwardly, nestles closer to him. Maybe that's the way Emrys wants to play it, keeping things between them the same as they were the first time. "Maybe I'll see you in them," he ventures, sliding his thigh between Merlin's.

"No," Merlin answers, although he doesn't move back; if anything, he wraps tighter around him. "No, I don't think you will."

X

For the first time in weeks, Mordred doesn't dream about Emrys. It is the only upside of Merlin rejecting him yet again.

X

Merlin leaves early every morning, before Mordred awakes. He sees him here and there over the course of the day, but all conversation between them is strictly mental, becoming more and more frequent as the walls in Merlin's head construct themselves. Mordred tests them occasionally, scraping at the metaphorical masonry Merlin is putting up, searching for cracks and crevices, weaknesses of any kind. Merlin doesn't know he's doing it, of course, but since he hasn't found any flaws to report as of yet, it's hardly an issue.

_The_ _queen wishes to speak to you_, Merlin tells him the week after Arthur's threats. _She requests that I find you and send you to her chambers for tea_.

_Is she going to poison me?_ He asks before he can stop himself, because that's rather the way his life has been going lately.

Merlin's answering laughter is not at all reassuring.

X

"I wish to apologise for my husband's behaviour," Queen Guinevere states kindly, sliding a cup towards Mordred and offering him a seat. "Arthur can be a little overbearing sometimes."

"I don't know what you're talking about, my lady," Mordred answers, sitting opposite her; it's hardly wise to criticise the king in front of his wife, even if doing so largely requires him to lie through his teeth. "The king has done a great deal to make me feel welcome here."

Guinevere smiles and sips her tea; Mordred isn't quite that brave, even if she did pour both cups from the same pot. "He means well," she says, patting his hand. "But you must understand, Sir Mordred. Merlin is very dear to us both."

Mordred nods, still not willing to touch his drink. "I do understand," he answers, rather thinking that non-committal is the way to go. But, on the other hand..."King Arthur has a rather odd way of showing it."

The queen laughs, then drinks again. "He does mean well," she repeats. "He's just cautious, and you have dangerous friends. This sorcerer, for example?"

"What of him?" Mordred asks reluctantly. Given the choice between this conversation and Arthur trying to scare him through unnecessary levels of violence, he'd rather face Arthur any day.

X

And then, almost two weeks later and far worse than the king and queen put together, there is Gwaine.

Perhaps the other knights have not noticed the change in Merlin and Mordred's circumstances, or perhaps they just don't consider it necessary to say anything about it. Either way, their lack of comment is definitely preferable to the obscenely smug grin Gwaine is sporting when, as Mordred makes his way back from lunch, he grabs him by the elbow and tugs him into a room. It's the same grin he's worn every time Mordred has seen him recently, and it's not at all an exaggeration to say that he loathes it.

"What?" Mordred snaps, Gwaine shutting the door behind them. "Do you really have nothing better to do with your life than look at me like that?"

"At the moment?" Gwaine shrugs. "Nah, not really. Right now, your sex life is the most interesting thing in this city."

Mordred can think of precisely one response to give that statement, however unkind it may be. "You, Gwaine, have problems."

The grin, if it's possible, gets even more obscene. "You're not the first to say it, kid," he drawls, then laughs when Mordred frowns at him, although he decides the name isn't worth protesting. "Now, this thing with Merlin. Tell me about it."

"No."

Gwaine, smugger than smug, has the nerve to pout at him. "Really, Mordred. I'm not asking for...no, well, I am asking for details, but it's not like I'll tell anyone."

Mordred places a hand on both of Gwaine's shoulders and pushes, needing more space than Gwaine seems willing to give him. "Even if I was fool enough to believe that, Sir Gwaine, I would tell you nothing."

"That's because you're _boring_," Gwaine says, the pout only getting more pronounced.

"No," Mordred says again, and enough is enough when the entire kingdom seems to be trying to prove themselves the best in the land at various unusual actions. Merlin seems to be delighting in causing him sexual frustration, Arthur has taken to violence with great relish, the queen has a fondness for uncomfortable questions the likes of which Mordred has never known, and Gwaine, Gwaine could make annoying into an art-form. "No, I am not boring, no, I am not a child and no, I couldn't give you details even if I was crazy enough to want to because _there aren't any details to give_."

Gwaine stares at him disbelievingly for a long, long moment then grins at him almost fondly. "Well, mate," he says, sounding like he means it. "There's plenty of ways to fix that."

X

Mordred is not innocent to the ways of the world – Camelot is the first time he's lived somewhere with real walls, somewhere he can't hear every movement and every breath of the people close to him; he knew the facts long before he was old enough to have the impulse to act on them – but the things Gwaine says are enough to make him blush.

Still, just because most of his suggestions are far too extreme for his first time lying with Merlin, it doesn't mean the underlying idea is a bad one.

It is common knowledge that the door to Gaius' chambers is never locked, even when the physician isn't in there; anything particularly dangerous is securely locked away, and it is important that anyone needing assistance be able to enter at any time. It is also common knowledge that Gaius makes his rounds of the village in the morning and the castle in the evening, and Merlin has told Mordred that Gaius has no patients in residence at the moment.

Add to that the fact that Merlin returns to his room at about the same time as Gaius is absent in the evening to get clothes for the following day and yes, Gwaine's plan isn't quite as mad as it sounds at first.

There is a spell the Druids have cast over their camps for years, a little thing, that keeps them from notice. It doesn't work always, and doesn't keep away determined seekers, but it mostly deals with the less persistent people, and Mordred sees no harm in casting it on the physician's quarters when he gets there, to fend off the unwary. It won't work on Merlin, but it will be enough for this, for Mordred to get what he wants without interruption.

He pauses with his hand on the latch to Merlin's bedroom, questioning the wisdom of what he's about to do. He wants, though, wants too much to keep letting Merlin push him away like he is, wants too much not to follow through with it. Mordred lets himself in, his fingers already pulling at the laces on his shirt, ready to undress and wait in Merlin's bed, narrow and rickety but big enough for this, for them.

Or it would be, if there wasn't already someone else in it, and that really rather explains everything.

X

_Emrys_, Mordred calls, his thought-voice booming in Merlin's head, angry and confused. Merlin has had enough practice lately to make a guess at the direction he's in and distance between them, and it's funny, because he shouldn't be sounding like that when Merlin is pretty sure he's in Gaius' rooms. And yes, there are plenty of unusual things in there, but Mordred has more sense than to touch – or, god forbid, _eat_ – anything he comes across, and nothing in there is such that its mere presence could be expected to cause rage. Then, of course, Mordred continues. _Emrys, there's a girl in your room_.

_There's_ what_?_ Merlin answers, because really? A girl in his room?

_Yes_, Mordred tells him, _And there's no need to pretend you're surprised by this. I've worked it out_.

_Worked out what?_ Merlin asks, very much lost by the progression of this conversation. _Who is she?_

_You tell me_, Emrys. _It's your bed she's in_. Mordred's voice is almost a hiss and Merlin can feel the anger in it, like knives in his skull. _Tell me, why didn't you ask her for lessons, since she can hear every word of this conversation we're having?_

_Keep her there_, Merlin orders, Arthur's helm falling from his suddenly boneless fingers and clanging against the floor; whatever else Mordred is talking about, whatever else Merlin doesn't understand, there is a girl in his space and in their heads and that is not safe for anyone. _I'm on my way_.


End file.
